


Changing Routines

by aworldofgoblin



Series: Mordor's Finest [2]
Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Game), Middle-earth: Shadow of War (Video Game), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Betrayal, Blood, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical Slavery, Dakuk, Death, Dubious Morality, Eventual Friendships, Gen, Gondor, Gore, Graphic Description, I mean they're orcs come on, Implied Homosexual Relationships, Implied Relationships, Lugnak the Prowler - Freeform, Mild Language, Mordor, Mulash, Multi, Orc Culture, Orcs, Revenge, Slave Culture, Slavery, Slaves, Swearing, Uruk - Freeform, Violence, War, Wraith, mash - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 18:59:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12688269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aworldofgoblin/pseuds/aworldofgoblin
Summary: A month has passed since the news of the Gravewalker's Army reached the fortress of Zaghlug. Tongues are not idle, and many wonder whether these rumors are true or simply exaggerations. In the midst of all of this sit two Uruks who find themselves getting caught up making some unexpected allies.





	1. Prologue: Missing a Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A disgruntled guard is positioned at a watchtower and barred from a feast. He ultimately regrets not sneaking in anyways.

The slitted, rectangular holes crudely cut into the front of Ogg's helmet were far too small to see anything out of. The head covering was stout and boxy, a crude mangle of thick sheets of iron pulled and hammered together to form something resembling a bucket that'd been pounded square. He felt as if his head had been jammed in a hole in the wall with only a crack to look out through. His own breath was damp and rank within the metal trap, no time having been put into making a hole for a mouth. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, following a well-traveled route to the base of his neck. The humid night air of the Nurnen mountains clung to everything it touched, coating all matter in sticky condensation. His thin drab was one of the few reliefs he had, allowing what small breezes there were to flow through the fabric and reach his skin. How he wished for a position down at the fort, where the land was often a bit more barren and arid.

Ogg squinted his eyes against the vast sea of darkness in front of the watchtower, the tiny slits in his helm only allowing a small sliver of a view. They were akin to horse blinders, used to keep his line of sight steady and free of distractions. Distractions akin to grogg-filled feasts he was not to be invited to specifically by the order of his own captain. Ogg had remembered no past offense to cause this sudden abhorrence towards himself. All of his short life he had been a good, loyal uruk. The type of uruk that was always invited to feasts, and especially not replaced by a measly little archer. Yet that's what had happened. 

The captain had been doling out punishments more frequent than usual, a new offender being called out each new day it seemed. Ogg himself guessed it was because of either two reasons; he was dealing with some chronic mood swings or was getting ready to shoot for a promotion. The latter sounded more reasonable, but knowing the captains and how their power could take a toll on their minds, he didn't cross out the other. Why, a string of vicious reports of minor captains turning on their brothers in arms had trickled down from the north, most being regarded with amusement. What colorful tales! Orcs turning on orcs was nothing different. Scattered, hushed voices from the fort's scaffolding would be heard gossiping about each new incident, swapping more confidential tidbits of info and "hmm"ing in unison when someone said something widely agreed on. Those damn archers and their old womens' circle got on many nerves, particularly Ogg's. In the evenings they'd flock like crows on the tops of the fort's lookouts or make a corner for themselves in the tents at mess time. It was close to being a cult from his perspective. They hardly talked to anyone outside their little club and only rationed out the juicy stuff when they thought the offer being made for it was truly worthwhile. He wondered if the archers at the other fortresses behaved in similar ways.

"Ogg."

The guard spun around in a sudden burst of speed, claws latched tightly onto the hilt of his sword. The tiny eyeholes that so debilitated Ogg caused him to bob his head up and down in a mad haste to find his target. His peepers quickly fell on the well-known form of an armor encumbered, heavy-set uruk. He was leaning against the doorway to the watchtower, barely illuminated by the smoldering stump of a wall-hung torch. Ogg stuck his blade back into its half-torn scabbard and awkwardly straightened himself out. The night was long, and his nerves were becoming fried.

"Well aren't you jumpy? Scared I'm gonna stick 'yeh in the back, eh?" Ogg uttered a low growl at the cackles. He wasn't dumb enough to make it more audible, knowing that he'd likely share this shift with the red-tinged orc for many weeks to come. 

"Nar, would 'a caught you before you got a good poke in. Just tryin' to be alert is all."

The orc pushed himself off the wall, grabbed the nearest torch, and walked past Ogg, giving him a rough slap on the back, one that he wasn't sure was meant to be friendly. That had been most of their interactions so far. His words always bordered between mean-spirited and teasing, never quite crossing the threshold between the two.

"I'm going for a piss break. Hold down the place, would 'ya?" He spoke over his shoulder. Ogg gave a short grunt in reply.

The outline of the uruk nearly eclipsed against the glow of the torch as he headed down the hill the watchtower stood atop. A faint yellow shimmer that gradually grew smaller was all that visually remained of him as he disappeared into the small forest. 

The light, almost out of sight, finally stopped its bobbing, causing Ogg to let out a relieved sigh. He would have guessed the uruk was ditching him for a few good drinks down at the feast and was pleasantly surprised at his honesty. Then again, maybe he had been barred from the party as well. It would explain his current position at the outpost. He'd ask once he got back.

If Ogg would've had a bigger noggin, he'd have begun counting the seconds to the red orc's return, for the time he was taking was for too long for Ogg's tastes. Never in a thousand ages would he have admitted it, but the guard was less than comfortable being so far away from another soul on a night as dark as it was. Not a sound was perceived except the eerily shrieking winds against the cliffs to the north. Swarms of morgai flies, blood-sucking gnats, and other nasty buzzing creatures should have been more than audible on a night as muggy as this. Yet none were to be found. Ogg was in no means complaining; a lack of bug-bites on his hide was always welcome. It was merely offsetting for there to be such a lack of commotion. 

The guard's wish for a little ruckus was granted when a howl of pain echoed out from the copse below. Ogg struggled to see the manically swung light of the torch through his helm, moving his head to and through in a mad hurry to catch what was happening. A string of screams and snapping of sticks reverberated across the hill, accompanied by the ever-increasing sporadic movements of the yellow flicker between the leaves. He reckoned whatever was having a go at the poor uruk was winning.

As suddenly as they came, the yells were seemingly snuffed from the throat of the red-tinged orc, and the woods became silent once more. 

However, the light remained. 

It was held steady. Far too steady.

The glow grew larger and larger, signaling the return of the orc. As it did, it once again bobbed along, giving off no hint at the recent assault that had taken place. Ogg nearly pissed himself in suspense as the figure emerged from the woods, expecting the bearer to be a ghastly phantom of the night. When the opposite was revealed, and he spied the familiar face of the watch guard shine from the torchlight, he immediately eased off. But the luckless warrior looked so drab and tired he couldn't help but hold onto a slice of his anxiety. The way his head drooped low and his claws raked against the side of his head portrayed an orc lost in exhaustion. As he approached, it was unveiled what he was picking at was a grizzly, white burn encompassing his right temple. And boy did it look nasty. Ogg gathered his voice as best as he could.

"O-Oi! What was that all about, eh? Slip on your own piss or somethin'? He barked out nervously, trying to bring a little game-ish teasing to what was undoubtedly freaking him out.

The guard, Paguk, gave him naught but an unearthly moan of discomfort, not even raising his head to acknowledge him. He crept ever closer, momentarily weaving in and out of the blind-spots Ogg's helmet provided. There was no was no visible evidence of any fight on Paguk's body except for the burn mark. Perhaps he had simply dropped the torch on himself in a fit of clumsiness and reacted a tad bit too stricken? It seemed out of character for the orc, but definitely probable. What else could have happened?

Paguk barely kept his legs in front of him as he stumbled past, claws dug into the base of the torch like it was a lifeline. Ogg leaned back as far as he could to let him through, not yet knowing if this orc was one to get vexed when tired. The fried flesh on his head was horrid up close, akin to what would be created if a bloke had his skin flayed then thrown into a pan of popping oil. Strips of skin hung off the side of the injury, covered in dollops of gooey, liquified flesh. By Morgoth he could smell it too. A sickly, savory aroma of grilled meat and boiled fat all mixed into a great big stench. He was glad the orc's scalp had been free of hair, or else the smell would have been considerably worse. Ogg was suddenly very thankful to have such a protective helmet, no matter how bothersome it could be. 

The red orc stood hesitantly in the doorway of the tower and lifted his seared head as if remembering a thought. He glanced back at in Ogg's direction.

His eyes appeared milky and focusless, without an idea of where he was looking at, or what he was looking at. Unblinkingly, Paguk's glassy eyes stared through him. There was nothing to signal he was actually registering the orc in front of him. It reminded Ogg of the way the tarks got after several weeks in the slaver's hut, all lost and mindless. 

Slowly, Paguk looked up and locked orbs with the guard. His mouth hung slack mindlessly, and Ogg swore he was somehow pleading him with. For what, he knew not.  
A jolt of movement rippled through the marred orc, sending his face into an irate scowl that wrinkled his forehead and lifted his lips. He doubled back, bracing himself against the archway with one hand while cradling his head with the other. The now smoldering torch lay against the ground, growing dimmer each second. The heaving breaths gushing in and out of his lungs became more ragged and desperate, growing to an incredible intensity before he whipped his head to Ogg. The guard had barely grazed the hilt of his sword before Paguk was on him.

Ogg croaked out a small yelp before his voice was cut off by a hand to the windpipe. A flurry of clawed swipes landed upon his helm as he was slammed against the stone of the tower. In a painful jerk, the crude piece of armor was ripped off his head and thrown aside, allowing Paguk to rake a hand down Ogg's face. He could feel the needle-sharp ends of Paguk's fingers slice through the outer layer of one of his eyes, resulting in a choked scream on his behalf. The feeling was that of a thousand nettles being laid onto his eye while the socket was used as a mortar for a pestle. Ogg laid several weighted punches along his attacker's sides, then burrowed his fingers as deep into his ribs as he could. His now one good eye was being drowned in a torrent of blood, making it harder to peer through the fingers that were lacerating his face. He laid a swinging kick into Paguk's abdomen, causing him to wheel back in a volley of gasps. Wasting no time, he fumbled for the sword on his belt, praying to the Dark Lord that he would be able to fling it out before the wheezing orc regained his composure.

The blade exited the scabbard with the most heavenly of sounds, a sound that almost distracted Ogg from the orc that was throwing itself, fangs and claws bared, directly at him. 

Held as the last defense between his flesh and the orc's grasp, Ogg felt an ounce of resistance against the tip of the blade before Paguk slid onto it with ease. 

The metal cut into his chest more smoothly than he had expected it to, and pushed so far through the flesh that Ogg found himself smelling the still shaking breath of his fellow uruk. He peered deep into milky eyes and found the light there fading. For good measure, he gave his blade a sharp twist, and any measure of life that stubbornly refused to leave Paguk's body disappeared.

He angled his sword downwards and allowed the corpse to fall off of the length. An arm was kicked several times, but naught a twitch came out of it, allowing Ogg to release a pent-up breath of relief. He lightly pressed a finger to his shredded eye and hissed. No healer's herb or patient nurturing would bring it back. There went his shot at applying for a crossbow. Careful not to disturb the cuts on his freshly carved face, he wiped away what blood he could from his last good eye. Paguk's scar, he realized, was not wholly white. Where it was open and flayed, he spied unnatural streaks of blue. Long, terrible, swaths of blue that formed the ghostly visage of a spread hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Paguk wasn't going back to his pitmaster job anyway.
> 
> Being a prologue, this is a bit shorter than what a typical chapter will be like.


	2. Power Vacuum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dakúk comes to work late and finds a power vacuum has been created.

Lax guards were whipped guards. Either that or heavily bruised. Dakúk repeated this mantra through his head in a loop, urging himself to lift his feet just a little bit faster and make his strides a tad longer. Red dirt clung to the ankles above his crudely wrapped feet, forming a sticky layer of dirt and sweat that would join the other specks ingrained into his legs. The feeling was irritating, but there was no time to wipe away the grime. The sun was already peaking its glaring rays over the barren horizon. Its effects were already taking a toll on him in the form of long trails of sweat that rolled down his back and neck. The star of the waking hours would soon take back what it had so grievously gifted him by sizzling it off his skin in mere moments. Dakúk would have been fine with that had it not meant reaching for a waterskin every fifteen minutes. 

Such was the climate of the mountain basin. On days he found especially unbearable, he would contemplate the possibility of asking for a position farther south, where air went to skin-cracking dry to wet as a pollywog. It was fascinating what a simple shift in elevation could do. The posts he would often mull over were but separated from the fortress by several peaks that decreased in height as one walked south. Dakúk would throw the accursed thoughts out of his head as soon as he came to a better state of mind. No uruk that wished to go down there knew how badly they truly didn't. A single taste of life in the Núrnen forests was all that was needed to get an uruk back on the right track of avoiding the damned place.

Dakúk bulldozed through a group of line-chained, skin and bone slaves to keep his pace, knowing the moment he stopped, he'd convince himself to stay stopped. The slaves, who were being led by their respective slave-trainers, scurried out of the way like frightened mice, some crawling over their friends who did not move with ample speed. Alongside the boisterous thundering of the fulminating slave-trainers were the small yet resilient curses of the most foolhardy tarks. Perhaps the slavers would thank him later for exposing which humans needed an extra dose of discipline.

The moldy rag of a slave's shirt hooked on the bladed tip of his pike, stealing away the piece of clothing from its owner. Dakúk mentally roared at the idea of a tark standing in a chain line suddenly finding himself devoid of a shirt. They always made the most amusing expressions. He took no time ripping the cloth off of his weapon and flinging it to the side of the dirt path.

Thanking the great eye in the sky, he hastened his pace at the sight of the gorge. The winding split in the heart of his fortress's territory grew ever more monstrous as he advanced upon it. Once at the cliffs of the mighty canyon, he grabbed a splintered wooden pole and used it as a handhold for his descension onto a scaffold. Before putting the full weight of his body onto the suspiciously flimsy looking piece of plank, he kicked it with the might of if his clawed feet. No uruk bothered to replace the older rotting platforms, preferring to command the tark slaves to simply apply newer ones next to those that were no longer reliable. While an adequate solution at the time of the establishment of this practice, the passing of years had turned the great stone wall into a hodgepodge of clustered, half-assed works of carpentry. Some planks swang left to right in the wind, others tricked good uruk guards to believe them to be freshly cut from a Núrnen tree. The inability to keep track of which scaffolds were sturdy had led to a trial and error learning experience for the mine's guards. This led to a designated "least likely to die" path they all used when leading the slaves out of the canyon.

Despite the obvious strain his action put on the chains connecting the scaffold and stone, the wood held fast. Dakúk made a mental note to tell the others the path was still good.He flew down the side of the canyon as fast as his feet could carry him, wishing that the captains would call for an implementation of railings on all structures. He thought of how heavily Lugnäk would oppose the idea.

Dipping under the bottom of another scaffold, he spied the gaping mouth of the mine. Oddly, it wasn't void of life as was typical. An angrily buzzing swarm of uruks had formed an amoeba of a gathering, some grumbling off to the sides while others dueled with words in the center. He was unsure whether the fellows in the middle intended to truly spill blood or were only butting heads. The ones that spied him bustling down from the canyon top made no effort to point out his arrival.

The few faces among them that he did not see he suspected had stayed back in the recesses of the caves to watch the slaves. 

The feeling of solid ground beneath his feel slacked his contracted muscles. He was no bird to go swinging on suspended, wooden perches.  
An orc struggled its way above the heads of the crowd, standing on what he assumed was a rock hauled from the mouth of the cave. Using an ax he held in his right hand, he batted the closest noggin' to him and gave out a silencing shriek. All eyes turned to this disrupter of the less than peaceful peace.

"Listen up you pieces of shrakh! I've got half'a mind to whip ya'll for your stupidity, but I've figured you'll be beat 'nuff when I tell ya pitmaster ain't just up 'fer grabs!" 

With a clear view, Dakúk instantly recognized the monster of an orc. Mulash, lovingly nicknamed "Mash" after his gruesome habits, was a towering black uruk known for flaunting his strength and residing as Paguk's right hand. Paguk had chosen Mash solely based on his ability to pound a tark straight into the ground and the shaking volume with which he could yell . Amazingly, he never seemed to run out of air to blast in his subordinates' faces. You couldn't even make the excuse of not hearing him down in the dozens of twisting tunnels of the mine. Long before Dakúk had been transferred into the canyon, Mash had been a wild berserker, probably the best one the fortress had to offer. Dakúk had naught a clue as to how he had become a slave guard. Not even Lugnäk had been able to dig up dirt on it. The topic was obviously a sensitive one for the black uruk, seeing as how he'd beat any fool that asked about it into a pulp. 

There was one more sore subject that had to be avoided when talking with the brute. He was, with complete and total certainty, the most mannish orc Dakúk had ever laid his eyes on. Unlike most orcs, who were bald as coots, he had been gifted with a full head hair. It had honestly caused him to do a double take at their first meeting, for if put into a set of gondorian garmets, he would have easily been able to pass for a human on a hazy night. That was if he could find a way to cover his blatantly orcish teeth, of course. At least fifty percent of all of the orc in him had been funneled into his set of chompers. 

The added height of the rock gave him the stature of a goliath and the intimidating aura of a cave bear. His squinting eyes scanned the hushed guards before him, waiting for every orc to turn to attention. Dakúk assimilated himself into the crowd as it congealed around Mash.

"Now! How 'bout we all stop playing 'who'sa captain' so I don't have 'ta listen to 'yer squawkin' no more? 'Boy is comin' down from the fort to settle this out and I don't want him 'ta think we're a bunch 'o tark-headed asses that can't carry on all businesslike." Mash barked. The guards slowly shifted from down-right piping to grumpily compliant, understanding the new complexity of the circumstance. The title of Pitmaster was not thrown around idly. Any bloke with enough rage in his heart and muscle in his sword arm could rise to the rank of Warchief or Captain, but few could succeed in claiming the name of Pitmaster. There was no shortcut of killing the current owner of the position. An orc that could but scream and slice was nearly useless. What was required was an obvious show of skill in the profession, an understanding of how it turned the cogs of the fortress.

Dakúk found himself astonishingly perplexed at what exactly was happening around him. While he should have been giving every guard a good schooling about stirring outside alongside Mash, Paguk was utterly devoid of the furor. Not only that, the solemn and occasionally grief-filled way the surrounding orcs jawed about him left Dakúk painfully curious about what may have transpired over the course of his absence from his post. Paguk was a wise, moderately docile uruk that knew how to keep himself safe. He wouldn't have let himself fall prey to an accident in the mine, nor did he have an overabundance of enemies. Yet his fellow guards mumbled his name as if he had succumbed to a terrible fate.

Not wasting an opportunity to find the answers he sought, Dakúk weaved his way through the hubbub of dispersing guards once Mash finished his speech. As expected, a barrier of orcs demanding an audience had gathered around Mash. Dakúk managed to find a gap in between two rather unruly guards, both of whom were currently arguing with the black uruk. He had stepped down from his rock, and while still intimidating, had a more approachable look to him.

"It ain't fair!" Argued the uruk to Dakúk's left, pointing a long, crooked finger at Mash. " I's the best tark-kicker this shrakh-hole has evah' seen and 'yer tellin' me I can't even least contend for the bloody position? That's a load of caragor dung and you know it!" Several droplets of spittle flew onto Mash's cheeks and nose, making him cringe in disgust. Dakúk could see the rage flicker in his eyes, then disappear out of better judgment. Still, his gaze grew more intense.

"You wanna yap to someone, yap to the overlord. He made orders to keep pitmaster on hold 'till he were ready to make his decision. " He growled deeply. The offender huffed and gave him a sharp glare, embarrassed by all the eyes that had become fixed on him from Mash's retort. Feeling shrunk, he flung a few curse words at the black uruk before marching off. Mash finally turned his attention to the waiting form of Dakúk. 

"Ya got something 'ta say like 'im?" He queried, obviously sick of hearing orcs' repetitive complaints. 

"Nah, nah," Dakúk said reassuringly, not wanting to be the grain that tipped the scale. "Just wonderin' what in the name of the eye is going on." He exclaimed, words drawn out and tired.

Mash grinned a subtle, sharp smile and raised an eyebrow in amusement, eager to humble Dakúk for his obvious absence. "Well! 'Suppose you weren't really 'round to get tha' news were 'ya?" He chided. "What were 'ya doing this past hour anyhow, eh? 'Ya got stewed last night or something?"

Dakúk huffed and shook his head "That ain't important." He voiced seriously. He was in no mood to engage in light banter with the orc, no matter how badly he needed a round of venting conversation. He was sure he would simply rant and rave about last night's debacle. No, there were more pressing matters to get on to.

"I'm guessing Paguk is-"

"Dead as dirt, the ol' fella. Don't feel left out, most no one would have suspected him to kick the bucket so suddenly. It was an odd turn of events, it was." Mash smacked away a notoriously wrily orc whom had lost his patience while waiting for his turn. The transgressor eeked, then scurried back into the hovering circle of grousing guards, rubbing his stinging jaw. " Cappin' Gruhra was the end of him, no doubt." Mumbled curses at the mention of the orc's name were thrown around in the huddle.

Dakúk was taken aback. " Nah! He wouldn't dare run 'im through like that! You know he'd be out within a week after that sort of display." He argued. Even as revered as captains were, Gruhra was held in a special place in most of the guards' thoughts. A dark, sinister place filled with hopes of the hated orc falling off the side of the canyon on one of his routine mine inspections. What restrained many of his enemies from giving him that gentle nudge was the knowledge of the dreadfully loyal followers he possessed. It was almost suspicious how such a despised individual could come to secure the number of supporters Gruhra had. 

"'Course he didn't do it with his own hands, too much focus on him that way. Most folks are bettin' he bribed that lad that were stationed with ol' Paggy at the southern watchtower. It makes more sense when you think 'bout 'im being positioned there for tha' week. What better way 'ta get rid of a bloke than with as few witnesses as possible?" The vast, black uruk may not have meant to show it, but Dakúk caught a flicker of sorrow dance in and out of his eyes. The denizens of Mordor were known for being a hardy, war-loving folk. The land was not suited for being close with other souls, yet did not wholly restrict it. Only the most soft-minded of the guards were ignorant of the comradery the pitmaster and his second had shared.

" 'Tha killer had his own little tale to spin about what happened. 'Babbled on and on about how Paguk went mad and jumped him like some beast of the wilds. The uruk could tell a vivid story, I'll give 'im that. But what a load of shrakh." He continued, shaking his head.

"Think the overlord'll look into it?" Dakúk hissed, knowing the question was purely rhetorical.

"Not a chance. Gruhra's got 'em got 'im by the throat. He's already asking for a promotion to warchief, the bastard. Man-eater better get 'is spine straightened out if he wants to stand up to that sod. Soon Gruhra'll have 'is eyes on his position." It was true the overlord had been generously lenient towards allowing Gruhra's shenanigans. Much of the outcry from his soldiers could have been prevented had he simply stripped the tyrant of his rank before he had gained a foothold in the hierarchy. Now, it was too risky to remove such a prevalent figure from the fort's structure. His enemies would have to wait until he eventually fell victim to an "accident" or consequence of his own poor judgment.

" So what's the plan 'fer-"

" Oi piss off!" Mash barked, driving back the swelling, incessant rowdiness of the surrounding mass. Most had a series of nasty complaints to file, it seemed. With a signature swing, Mash struck a line across a series of orcs to lull the crowd. Dakúk began to think better of making himself the center of the circle. To watch the black uruk sweep back the inevitable rising tide of quarreling guards would be a bout of rare entertainment, but he felt inclined to keep his bones straight.

"Eh... what were 'ya going on 'bout 'gain?" The goliath questioned, rotating his head back to raise a brow at the curious uruk.

"I'll spot 'ya at mess time." Dakúk sighed, pushing aside green, grey, and red bodies to make a path through the gathering.

"'Yeah, yeah... sure thing." Mash muttered, not devoting a wayward glance to the retreating orc. His attention had been turned to the half-goblin that was screeching feces based profanities in his ear. Dakúk assumed Mash had more pressing matters than repeating what most everyone knew by now. If he was feeling exceedingly curious, he could always urge a series of answers out of the smaller guards.

 

 

The coal encrusted slaves hugged the wall, leaving a wide path for the returning guards. The deeper one strayed into the serpentine tunnels, the greater the effort was to distinguish slave from stone.All things became black and cold. No water was spared to wipe off the grimy, ebony-hued dust that settled on their skin

Stray feet were aggressively kicked aside, resulting in the owners retreating in on themselves in an act of instinct. The overlord had loosened the restrictions of what actions the guards could and couldn't take against the slaves. Approximately three weeks earlier, the fort had traded four dozen wagons full of prime condition coal to an allied fort in the south. The small army of Machine-Tribe uruks that ran the fort had suffered a terrible year of loses, and could not supply their furnaces with the fuel they so craved. Dakúk's overlord had made a simple, yet enticing proposition.

The surplus of human prisoners from their allies had destroyed the need to keep the majority of the slaves damage free. This revamping of the long sustained rules had been met with an overwhelmingly positive response from the pent-up orcs of the mines. For far too long had they dealt with their feelings peacefully. 

The humans spread what small details they could pick up down the long lines of shackled bodies, the entirety of the caverns learning of the news within a few hours. Naysayers counseled their friends to pay no heed to the fanciful rumors, as they were likely the half-minded ramblings of a poor, dying soul. When the bravest among them reached out for clarification from what few orcs were inclined to respond to slaves, they were proud to wave their ratified gossip in the face of doubters. First, there was a great, concealed celebration reaching even the darkest crannies of the meandering shafts. The newly imported Gondorian men would recite short poems of freedom and the white tree while those who had known the mine for many months before would simply allow themselves a small amount of rest despite the imminent punishments from their masters. 

Dakúk stood at his post as he did everyday, doing much the same, which was absolutely nothing. Nothing except eavesdropping on the humans of course, who in between swings of their clanging picks, would exchange but a sentence of hushed words. Superior to their own, Dakúk's ears caught nearly every whispered syllable and muttered tone. What they believed nigh indetectable to their silent watcher was in actuality blatantly apparent. He wasn't sure whether his humans were simply ignorant, or secretly meant to make themselves heard.

"Gone! A blessing bestowed to us from the Valar no doubt. Our liberation is soon, oooh, I can feel it!" The young slave's voice was unbroken, and did not waver in tone. Dakúk had seen this man outside before, specifically on the day of the trade agreement with their allies. Since then, his bright golden hair had been muted by the color devouring dust of the mine. He was a gondorian, a former soldier that had succumbed to the overwhelming numbers of the Machine-tribe. Granted with first pick of the new chattel, Dakúk had pointed to a short, mild-looking man with which he assumed he would gain no mischief from. 

The ever hopeful man swung his pic before continuing his sentiments. "You'll see. This is simply another step towards what awaits us all. Your vigilance will keep you strong."

Dakúk could, at times, admire the man. The piping, prolix declarations the human so passionately constructed announced his limitless defiance. "But by Morgoth's balls, would he take some time to shuddup'?" Thought the orc.

"You fantasize too much friend. Your revolutionaries in the slave house fill your head with hollow dreams, why don't you join us by the water trough today? 'Spend some time to relax." A neighboring slave whispered in a sibilant tone. 

"Do not try to change the subject, not while it is being spoken of all around us, at least. You can't simply hush it away. This is important, don't you see? New times are on the way. Surely this is what our 'masters ' ", he spat the word out sarcastically, " are so strung up about. This was no assassination by a rivaling uruk." The gondorian's voice grew giddy, then settled into a more even tone. " Besides, your folk do nothing but dawdle and mope over there. I fear the mood would bring my spirits down."

"Well? What are you on about then? The orcs' worries, not our 'dawdling' as you so kindly put it. "

"It is the one they fear! They call him the 'Gravewalker'. A frightful name, yes, but he is a friend to men, as I have heard."

Dakúk would have groaned had he wanted to reveal his wandering ear. He should have suspected the humans would give into the tripe as easy as the other uruks. Captivating tales lured all into their mindnumbing snares of grandiose lies. 

"And where did you hear of this fabled savior, hmm?" The second man taunted, obviously tired of listening to the same wishful stories. 

" From the enemy itself! You'd be surprised what they'll spill for a bottle of that revolting orc draught." The gondorian sneered. Dakúk imagined his opinion of the drink would change if his human stomach could actually handle it.

The older man laughed, but it was doleful. " You talk of breaking the whips of our oppressors, yet you willingly join them for colloquy."

"Do not accuse me of conspiring with them." The man hissed in retaliation. " It was a simple tit for tat. I'll take what information I can from any mouth, be it that of a noble's or the gnashing maw of an orc." He hesitated for a moment, then said "Though I admit, I feared for my safety for much of the ordeal. I suspected the orc would be tempted to rat me out for asking about such taboo topics. I could almost feel our overseers' lashes strewn across my back."

"It wasn't one of the mine's orcs, was it?" The nameless, second slave queried. 

" Valar above no. Besides the fact they hardly know how to count to three," To this Dakúk scowled, "I'd rather not converse with those that have beaten me countless times. " The eavesdropping orc in their vicinity thought this was not at all fair seeing as he had only given the man a few, greatly needed, disciplinary smacks upside the head. 'And that in no way counted as a beating. Perhaps a light roughing up, but definitely not a beating. The older man however? Yes. Yes, he had unquestionably given him a solid thrashing before. "It was a small, gangly crossbowman- er... orc, I suppose. The damnable weapon barely fit on his back. A shifty, curious creature he was. But he supplied what I asked for, so I shall leave it at that."

Immediately, Dakúk had a perfect mental image of this mysterious gifter of forbidden knowledge. Infact, he was ninety percent positive he knew exactly who it was. For the longest time, Dakúk had underestimated the lengths the twiggly orc would go to find an audience for his conspiratorial prattlings. The band of archers, who widely parroted the myths, had done little to quench his thirst for revealing his haughtily named "Unequivocal Truths".

"Oi!" For the briefest moment, all pics froze mid-air, suspended by an acute, hammered-in fear of the black uruk's yell. Though essentially blind in the black of the mine shaft, every set of eyes turned to the connected passage above. The wait for what would follow the bark was painfully long...

"Dakúk!" In a united release of tension, the pics dropped to once more chip into the coal veins. For now, there was nothing for the slaves to tremble over.

The eavesdropping guard grew worried at the command for his attention. "Eh, what is it?" He bellowed back up the hole where it had come from, the echoes of his voice reverberating through the small pockets of tunneling. 

"You're wanted." Responded Mash.

Besides the morning chaos, the day had been boring through and through. As long as he wasn't being summoned for his abrupt execution, he was eager to spend a bit of time away from his post.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! Mash is very mannish looking. In fact, this will definitely be addressed and played with in future chapters.


	3. One Orc's Gain is Another Orc's Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A smiley captain travels to the mines to make an important decision and finds sport in touching on sore subjects.

Lined up next to his most accomplished fellows, Dakúk kept a wary eye on the grey mottled captain. He paced up and down the row, his gait consisting of lopping forward in a crooked, uneven motion. He heavily favored the left side of his hip, an area that was known to give the orc terrible trouble. Once in a short while, if watched closely, the lined orcs could catch him subtly flinch off of his left foot after mistakenly applying an uncomfortable amount of pressure. Those that were weak may have pitied the villain for this wretched blight upon his body. Those that knew better would agree in unison that he deserved every aching pain his condition gave him.

If the crassly cut armor wrapped around his torso and appendages were thrown aside, he would gain the appearance of a bent cripple. A highly deadly cripple at that. The hip may have hindered his abilities, but none except fools and dunces challenged him because of it.

The eery whistle of the wind flowing through the canyon and the discordant, barely audible self-contemplative mumbles of captain Gruhra ushered in a cloud of uneasiness over the heads of the small gathering. Dakúk had expected to be pitted against competing guards to test his prowesses in combat, not stand in the sun and be stared at by a crickety, hunched orc. He supposed it would simply be an audition for captain if all he had to be good at was hitting someone hard enough.

Gruhra stopped in front of an orc that was shorter than Dakúk by a head, and made a gesture to Mash. He hurried off of the sidelines and came to the captain's side. Gruhra's shoulders barely reached the bottom of his stomach. The grey orc had to tug roughly on the lobe of Mash's ear and force him into a half squat just to whisper a query to him. His disdain was put on display as he pulled his advisor down the line, asking for the repertoire of each guard. All watched in awe as the mine's second in command was lead around by his ear like a mischievous child. Mash was visibly struggling to not pull away and retrieve his stolen dignity. To see the colossal uruk taken down to a fraction his height in such an undignified manner was a spectacle. Dakúk wondered of the immense nerve the grey orc had to humiliate Mulash so greatly, then reminded himself of the fiend's identity. 

Hunched as a begger, Gruhra planted his feet in front of Dakúk and probed him humorously with his eyes, pupils moving left and right lazily. For a moment, he settled his glance on the guard's face and furrowed his brow in thought. Dakúk had no choice but to stare back uncomfortably, trying to focus on the tattered edges of the orc's ears rather than his penetrating eyes. Slowly, Gruhra's face grew more relaxed and the ends of his lips turned upwards into a subdued grin. 

"Eh... I knows yous don't I?" He jeered in what may have intended to sound teasingly playful, but made Dakúk's anger simmer. It was a question with an obvious answer. He didn't say a word in return. " How long you been down 'ere then? I'm being honest, really. World's busy 'ya know."

Lacking a response from the orderly candidate, the captain frowned and made a gruff "hmph". He twisted himself close to Mash's pinched ear whilst keeping an eye glued to Dakúk. "Is he mute now 'er what? I told 'ye not to get any weird ones." The hisses were loud enough to cause several other guards to sneakily shift their glances over to the ensuing interrogation. The gutty, rumbling answer given by the black uruk presented but a small effort to conceal itself.

"I don't think he thinks you wanted him to speak cappin'." Mash half-whispered, straining to keep his head at the angle Gruhra was pulling it in. The show of power on the captain's part appeared superfluous. Flaunting control over one's underlings was expected of Mordor's denizens, but the display before the guards was simply painful to watch.

"Ah." In neither an act of grace or kindness, Mash's lobe was released. Dakúk lightened the screw-tight hold on his spear, letting it stand loosely within his fingers. The abashed uruk unbent his knees and fell into a conservative stance, arms crossed huffingly and stoney gaze planted nowhere in particular. " What a fine place for 'yerself you've made here. Ain't nearly as bad as people make it out to be, ya know." The black beady eyes of the grey orc livened with simple conversation. " I bet 'yer not upset 'bout being switched over anymore seeing as how 'ya get to stand here. Heh!" Light-hearted chuckles drifted from his mouth in half-confident tones to mask the silence being received. He faked a cough.

"Well," Gruhra continued, now slightly flustered with impatience, " say something why don't 'cha?" His head was cocked expectantly, and Dakúk begrudgingly submitted.

"I'm guessing it weren't nothing personal, was it?" He growled, fixing the captain a stone cold glower. 

"Skah, don't start with that stuff. Nowadays I switch fellas around by the hour, there ain't nothing to it more than logic and demand 'fer your sort." An underlying tone of disdain dipped in and out of his voice, speaking as if hushing a child's tantrum. " If there were no need to do such things I wouldn't, I swear." He rubbed the nearly flat bridge of his nose and lowered his volume. "And I may have been a little rash back then, I'll admit." 

Dakúk accounted it as a word or two to stop his grousing rather than a genuine apology. There was more elvish blood in his body than specks of true penitence in Gruhra, which to say there was none. He would not give in to the captain's honeyed words without more incentive than a half-hearted "sorry". The grey orc acted as if a solemn face of mock-up regret would turn his thoughts around. It dampened his pride, really, to know that one so high in status as a captain would regard him as that amenable. He was not so smoothly swayed.

"Best to put it aside, eh?" 

"Hmph." Dakúk offered only a rough grunt, hoping to satisfy Gruhra with the vague response so as to not have to continue with the dispute. This worked well enough, as in taking the reply as a huff of reluctant agreement, the captain's subtle smirk returned.

"That's a lad. I promise on the eye 'ya won't 'ave 'ta worry about it happening again." He allayed in a warm yet snarky manner. Dakúk assumed the pair of crossed fingers barely hidden behind his back was a poor attempt at a joke. " Good job on gettin' 'yerself an advantage on the final ruling, too!" He exclaimed for the line of guards. "You boys should take some lessons from Dashúk on being nice to 'yer 'ol captain." A few faces to either side of Dakúk scrunched their noses up at him, silently reprimanding him for engaging the scourge. He desired to spit a nasty word or two at the captain to win back their favor. The most familiar profile standing outside the mine, Mash, offered a knowing stare. "Would be nice to have a pitmaster that didn't tell me to eat 'is knob on the daily." Gruhra thoughtlessly murmered. Pugúk had held no sympathy for his boss.

Giving the guard a final up and down look over, Gruhra swung himself over to the next uruk in line. "Alright Mush, what's on 'bout this one, then?" Mash grimaced. A long, clawed finger pointed itself but a hair from the forehead of a guard of nearly Dakúk's height that lacked a concerning amount of teeth. Some fools never caught on to the joke about knawing rocks to sharpen your tusks. 

"Nasty in a fight. Soft in the 'ead." 

" What about... this fella?" Upon being mentioned, the tiny runt of an orc bearing an uncanny resemblance to a similarly short crossbow wielder gulped down a lump of fear. Dakúk remembered the lunacy fueled mission Lugnäk had ventured on to prove the orc as his long lost blood-brother. It had almost been too much for him to bear when his elaborate conspiracy was shattered. The increasingly terrified runt had sputtered about hailing from the Misty Mountains after being scared shitless when Lugnäk had appeared like a phantom in his barracks. Two things had been discovered that day: Lugnäk was prone to rare but powerful episodes of sobs, and a damned goblin had been masquerading as an uruk of Mordor for nearly a year. 

" Real good at sneaking into places and pulling out slaves. Bad at doing... much. Still good with shaping the slaves up, the creepy bugger."

" The red fatty?" 

" I've seen 'im put a spear straight through a caragor's brains. It was already dead of course."

" That one over there reminds me of me old sparring partner."

" Rongär's never missed a day o' work."

" What's the catch? You're getting predictable with this stuff."

" He sleeps in the caves like a kook, cappin'. Acts all mole-like."

" I said no weird 'uns!"

The duo talked back and forth all the way down the line, Gruhra motioning at a guard while Mash rattled off what he knew about him, feeling relieved for being spared the vice-like grip on his ear. As the number of uruks remaining dwindled, he started to build up his composure, readying himself. Every movement was calculated. The last guard in line, having been considered too pathetic to be among the chosen, hobbled off into the mines to mope. Feeling rather disappointed, Gruhra watched him disappear. "What a sulky shrakh. I must say, I'm a bit underwhelmed by your selection Mush." He scanned his waiting letdowns. " 'Nothin' better than this?" Mash let himself wear the smallest hint of a smug grin, and raised his chin. 

"You don't often send us the best, cap. Pagúk was likely one of the best boys we 'ad down here. I think you'll regret him kicking the bucket; he was a good fit for his position." Gruhra's closed hands grew a little more clenched from the accusing tone. Still, he focussed on the black opening to the cave. " I've been managing the place myself since he bit the dust." Mash continued.  
Pretending not to notice the stage of confidence the black uruk was setting for himself, Gruhra watched humorously out of the corner of his eye. This was the route he was going then? 

Mash coughed a request for attention. 

" Ya let that pride go to 'yer head and that's all that will be left there." Ribbed the captain.

" I've been second in command 'fer a while now cappin', and seeing as 'ya can't find no blokes that suite 'yer liking, I think we can both agree on my promotion." Pure self-assurance oozed off of the orc, more than enough to make every guard in line let go of their hopes for pitmaster. Realizing how arbitrary the contest had been, discordant, displeased grumbles were shared amongst the candidates. Dakúk felt less despondent than most, remembering the constant nonsense Pagúk had to sort out on a daily basis. 

Gruhra held his hands together behind himself and smiled venomously at the face far, far above. 

" No." The reply was short and casual.

Mash's composure faltered for a moment, eyes going wide a split second before regaining themselves. The canyon was quieter than it had ever been. Mash found himself wishing for the wail of the wind rather than the speeding sound of his heart. He opened his mouth to speak, but found he could think of no words that would both defend himself and not offend the captain.

Gruhra placed a hand to his chin in thought and squinted his eyes at the black uruk. " Well, 'yer very much tarkish lookin', ain'tcha?" The mocking, condescending tone had enough bite in it to make the other orcs wince. The captain disregarded the unspoken boundaries the others refused to cross, opting to turn his fun into a show. " By Morgoth it's obvious. Look at 'yer brow, " He extended his arm as far as it would reach to jab a finger in his direction, " cut from the face of some man." Mash sputtered indignantly, trying to comprehend the gall he had. Pleased with the reaction he had received, Gruhra pulled back his arm and softened the edge from his voice. " 'Yer a fine second hand Mulash, and 'yer lucky you've been allowed that much. But you've got no place running the mines. Not with your blood."

The feeling of defeat was an infrequent visitor to Mash, only coming in small fleetings after losing a mug of grog over a bet, or having to stay past his shift to dig out slaves that had gotten lost in the mines. Nor had Mash ever felt much need to be ashamed. He was strong, ill-tempered, and considered himself a formidable opponent, all aspects of himself he was perhaps a bit too proud of. Yet both of those wounding feelings stirred within him in his cauldron of a head, creating a concoction that caused him to experience a terrible sickness. It was a sickness that of which he had felt but a few times before, a sickness that was in no way an ailment of the body, but was far worse than any fever or bout of seizing cough. He stepped aside meekly when Gruhra pushed him away to go back up the line.

"Now, 'ya gave me little to work with Mush, but I think we still got an uruk here that could be right 'fer the job." His voice gave no inkling as to the verbal assault seconds prior. Mash himself raised his head to expressionlessly gape at the sudden swing with which the orc changed his atmosphere, speaking to the black uruk as if they were jolly partners in the picking of the pitmaster.

On the sidelines, Dakúk had watched the damn-near performance of a disciplining with unbelieving eyes. Now, he struggled to regain his strong, upright stance as the captain wobbled towards him, armor clanking up and down like a cupboard of kettles in a small earthquake. The tinging of metal silenced when Gruhra stopped himself before Dakúk. 

" Eh, Dashúk. I'm suspecting you havn't lost your flare in the mines, yeah? You say yes and I agree to this, there better not be any more grudges on your part." Dakúk flicked his gaze over to the waiting form of Mash, who stared at him with utter uncertainty. A sharp snap of grey fingers brought his attention back to the captain in front of him. " Well?" There was no sign of a ploy behind his words, though Dakúk did not trust himself to detect something the orc could hide so effortlessly. His words sounded whichever way he intended them to. 

There was a certain temptation to say no to the generous opportunity being presented, to forfeit the position out of spite. To see the anger of rejection flare up in the orc would be a delicious sight, bettering his standing among Mash and the more abused members of the guards. Besides that, there was no knowing what plot of Gruhra's he'd be playing into. He couldn't shake the feeling that accepting the offer would be rolling over and presenting his stomach like a hound, opening up himself to be dealt with as Pagúk had been. 

Then, of course, there was the strenuous ordeal of managing droves of laboring slaves, weekly mining quotas, and an unruly bunch of angsty uruks. Four straw-heads slaves was the maximum he was comfortable with managing (excluding the human herding at the end of the day), and he found no way to imagine being in part responsible for all of them. They were fickle creatures, and if not trained properly could be left with an insatiable lust for causing mischief. That much he knew from his own wily Gondorian. He had a deeper grasp on their behavior than most uruks, though estimated it paled in comparison to the prodigious extent of Pagúk's. Pagúk, who had known how to silence a teetering uruk's paroxysm of vengeful threats by shooting him one cautioning glance. Pagúk, who had committed to memory the most unchartable of tunnel paths. Pagúk, who was going to be hard to top. 

However, he could give it a fair shot. The sultry allure of power had overwhelmed his better judgment.

Dakúk gave the waiting captain a kurt nod. 

" Understood." He said. Life was short in Mordor, to not do something worthwhile with it was a waste.

Gruhra smiled pleasantly(how dreadful), and gave his new pitmaster's shoulder a good-natured shake. " That's a good lad, Dashúk, always were a smart one, you were. I'm sure Mush," At this Dakúk noticed the colossal orc was hammering him with a condemning look, lips pursed. "can give you the run down of it all. 'Might even have some of Paggy's old papers, too." Bright, piercing eyes chilled his core, and for a moment Dakúk considered retracting his agreement to the offer. He doubted the black uruk would go out of his way to kill him (at least not yet), but he expected no kindness from him for quite some time. Dakúk quickly averted his eyes. " I'd let the big feller hold onto to his last sweet hours of control." Gruhra whispered, jerking his head in Mash's direction.

"So tomorrow then?" He asked, trying not to notice Mash's death stare.

" Why not, I s'ppose. Day's almost out anyhow, and I can't be bothered to stay down here to enforce ya to get 'yer behind moving. " Gruhra threw a hand on the top of his line of sight, estimating the minutes of light with clawed, wrinkled fingers. " Can't be more than an hour or two 'fore you get them slaves outta that hole.'" He observed, lowering his digits from below the sun. "You can call off 'yer lads now, ya know." 

His lads? Up and down the row of spurned fellows, there was not a face that wasn't regarding Dakúk. Ah yes, there was that matter then, wasn't there? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Crack. Another shard of frangible pottery exploded into a cloud of fine dust. Gently whipped to the north, a zephyr carried the particles into nothingness. Immediately after the remnants of the clay had dispersed, a lengthy bolt was fixed into the crossbow that had taken aim at it. A laborious effort was made to pull the string back onto the catch, fibers straining, seemingly ready to snap. This illusion of teetering stability had taken time to grow used to, for the catch the string ached against had been placed an unorthodox length from the tip of the weapon. Time and time again, the string would audibly protest through a high, pained "scwinch". For the first month of ownership, the dreaded noise would be met with a fearful flinching head that expected the forthcoming attack of a lividly slashing wire. If broken, the string would certainly have recoiled back into the hapless face of its puller. 

Thankfully, the catch's placement had been calculated well enough, and with time the weapon was digested to be worthy of trust. In fact, its owner found himself becoming increasing appreciative of the extra force afforded to him, admiring the clean, fair paths his bolts would follow. On several pride-sustaining occasions, his colleagues had grown suspicious of the extra lengths the iron tipped shafts would fly.

The orc a full tower below the archer dawdled with the broken pot in his hand, aware of the watcher. The archer grew testy in his tower, waiting for his comrade to stop his mindless fiddling. He was on the brink of yelling down a curse to bring the daydreamer's head back around to the task, when a streak of earthy brown zinged into the sky. The crossbow was juggled wildly in a pair of frantically grasping hands, sights aligning with a wide eye only after the shard had shattered itself on the ground of the courtyard. Rough cackles echoed from the ramparts of the walls, rugged faces peeking off of the sides of parapets to watch the hexed archer. Many also carried a crossbow in their arms, lithe builds signaling a proclivity to the more elevated levels of the fortress. To help save face, the grounded orc threw up an oblong chip, which was dealt with quickly by the ruffled archer. Still, the pitcher was met with a pejorative pebble that bounced off his head. Above, his partner wrinkled his nose then threw another, showing his disapprove of the pitiful attempt at an apology. Dakúk sidestepped and hurled a pitcher handle in return. Predictably, it combusted midair.

An entire set of splitting brown platters were shattered before the short, hooded uruk dipped his head below the walls of the dilapidated tower. Various rummagings were heard as he fumbled his way down the interior of the crow's nest. With a keen ear, a person could imagine an animated scene of a small, green uruk bumping his way through the copious stories fit within the cramped, narrow tube of a tower. All that was needed was a good ear, for the inner rooms were so lined with baubles and bibelets, that there was no avoiding brushing up against a pile of rusty skillets or assorted belt buckles. In turn, they would ding together in a ruckus, blighting listeners with their dissonant clangs. The tower's structural integrity, which naturally, would have given out years ago, now solely depended on its rubbish filling. Stretching from each floor to ceiling, the heaps of worthless tidwinks formed supportive columns of clutter. 

Miraculously, Lugnäk emerged from the den in a mere matter of minutes, pulling off a fisher's lure that had hooked on his hood while shimmying out of a small exit at the base of a curtain wall. As always, his oversized crossbow clunked in beat with his steps, hanging carelessly on his back.

"I shoulda stuck 'ye in the arse for that, ya knows. I'ves got a reputations to uphold." He scolded, placing the fishing lure into a pants pocket for safekeeping. Dakúk predicted it would stick him a sore later on in the evening. " That was a vile thing for yous to do." 

" You should be thankin' me 'fer keeping you on 'yer toes. 'Improvin' your reflexes and all that." Dakúk returned. 

"Pah! My reflexes are fine. Yous was just messings 'round so I didn't have 'nuff time to react." 

"Eh, I don't think 'ye know how good reflexes work Lug." 

"That's besides the point. You shouldn't go 'round purposefully makin' blokes look like fools. There's a market for the heads of those sorts of people. You're quite lucky I'm a generous sorts." Lugnäk huffed.

" Nah, I just think 'yer too yellow to poke 'yer new superior."

"Well you don't haves to be such a cheeky shrakh 'bouts it!" The overly cross nature of the shrill voice brought a smile to the guard's face. Word had traveled faster than Dakúk had. With any other orc, he would have been surprised, but the archer had ostensible, "reliable sources of intel" he refused to disclose. Worryingly, he'd shot down the proposition that they consisted of his fellow archers. What was known, was that they disliked being mentioned. "They'd have my arse." He'd say. " Some of these folks have this information for all of the wrong reasons." Dakúk himself simply believed Lugnäk to have too much time on his hands.

" Hmm...," Grumbled the archer, calming himself as he began to muse upon possibilities, "'yer going to be up there now, yous are. Woulda beens nice if ya coulda taken a crack at captain, but I can't complain." He said, propping himself against the rust drippled stone of the imposing curtain wall.

"Listen' to ya. Plannin' on riding off of my success. Think I'll put a good word in 'fer ya to the bosses huh?"

"Why you betters! I deserve it too. Ooh! You should mentions me to the weapons forger sometime. A rightfully made crossbow woulds be a nice change. Tell 'im hes a bastard while 'yer ats it."

"Even if I did, what would I get 'outta it? This seems awefully one-sided." Dakúk said. Lugäk furrowed his brow and held his chin in thought. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers together in revelation.

" One of my 'ole-!" 

" I don't want a blimmin' tark hat you loon. I ain't falling for that twice. 'Sported by royals', you said. A big load of feathers and flowery laces was what it was." Dakúk snarled. The novelty of the accessory hadn't dampened the fact he'd traded three pints of grog for it. In his drunken state, the trade had seemed fair what with how Lugnäk had worded his offer. More than fair, really. The next morning, Dakúk threw out the tacky thing.

"I weren't goings to say that." Lugnäk grumped. In a quieter voice, he added, " 'Wouldn't lets you ruin another one of thems anyhow." 

" How 'bout you keep some favors in store for me instead eh? There ain't much in that tower I'd like to 'ave a pick at." Dakúk suggested. 

"Hmmm, you knows I don't likes that. " The archer weighed the proposal in his mind, trapped inside his own pulling thoughts. A shiny new crossbow, wood freshly carved appeared in his head. He yearned to lay a tugging finger on the newly twisted string, to pull it over the twinkling catch. A wistful hum escaped him, imagining the snap of the bolt being released. "You drives a hard bargain Dakúk, and you're lucky I gives you the courtesies I do."

"So what's that mean?"

"Its a yes. But you betters mention that nice feelin' oak wood to him, ya hears? He's got a reserve he uses for spear shafts mostly, though I know he's made some crossbow stocks outta it." Lugnäk had craved to wield a crossbow of the style since he had set eyes on one one cloudy afternoon. Slinking around the crafters' huts for information on when the next batch of blades would be shipped out, Lugnäk had found himself unconsciously approaching the bowyer's tent. A group of impatient berserkers had employed him to find the date of the shipment, each soul aching to replace their dull, unbalanced swords with new ones that the forgers had promised to be "state of the art". Lugnäk seriously doubted this claim, seeing as the forgers were prone to simply dying the hilts a new color each batch. The berserkers never appeared to mind. In fact, they made a sport of collecting each new edition, boasting about their rare hues.

Forgetting the berserker's request, Lugnäk had slid around a corner of cloth and found a thin, temporary holding wall adorned with crossbows of all styles and proportions. At the tippy top of the rows hung a piece of art. Rich wood complemented the simple yet refined curving metal of the bowstave. The string must have been genuine caragor sinew. 

" I ain't sure 'bout that Lugnäk. He's awefully stingy with that stuff." Dakúk said skeptically. 

" Bring that big fellers from thems mines. You knows that ones. Mulash I think." The archer provided in turn.

" Nah, wouldn't be a good idea." He tried to hide the worry in his voice.

" It'd be a greats ideas! You gots all thems guard lads at the tips of 'yer fingers. Just haul the big guy down there and have 'im stand behinds 'ya while 'ya put in an order. The ol' crafter wouldn't dares say no to 'ya then."

" Mash is a busy sort, he wouldn't care for going out and wasting 'is time." He excused.

"Nonsense! Yous could throw in a nice littles dagger 'fer 'im. He'd love it." The archer was not catching on in the slightest to Dakúk's effort to turn the flow of their conversation.

Dakúk sighed and gave him a deadpan look. "Who do think 'were 'spposed to be pitmaster 'fore Gruhra dropped the position into 'me lap?"

Lugnäk, contorted his face in confusion and he drew back his head. For an orc so savvy with spying and talk, he had little ease figuring out the implications behind his friend's words. Lugnäk was about to protest the difficulty of the question before a wave of realization came over him. "Oh..." He whispered, cringing in slight pity for the black uruk. "Oooh! Shrakh you're right!"

"Yeah..."

"I can't even begins to imagine how much he hates 'yer guts!" Lugnäk exclaimed astonishedly. 

Dakúk snarled at him in annoyance. "'Ya don't have 'ta tell me you little twerp. Don'tcha think I know it already?" The thought of having to see the begrudged uruk in the mines again set him alive with unease. 

" Has he talked 'bouts killin' you yets?"

" No!" The guard snapped. " And I'd appreciate if you could shut 'yer trap 'bout it. I don't need remindin'." 

Lugnäk laid his hands on his sides and breathed a line of mourning words for his friend. Dakúk thought he caught a, "Poor bastard" from the small orc's mouth. In an effort to quell the tall orc's trepidation, Lugnäk suggested what he believed to be a generous offer. "You can always hides out in 'mah 'ole bunker." He proposed with a thumb gesturing towards the ramshackle tower. 

"I don't think he's intent on snappin' my spine, per say. Besides, it may blow over in a month 'er so." 

"Hey! I know my place ain't easy on the eyes, and it does have a few leaks, but it's a damn sturdy thing! It'd take a hurricane unheard of to blo- "

" I weren't talkin' 'bout 'yer pile 'o rocks 'ya kook! I meant the tizzy Mash's got 'imself worked up in." 

The two stood in silence, each orc's mind wandering through different thoughts. One leaning himself against his pike, the other fixing his balance so that the oversized crossbow on his back didn't sway to and fro. 

Dakúk was on the brink of suggesting a pint of grog when the thunder of war horns blared throughout the fortress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a bit longer because, well, it is a bit longer. I apologize for the wait! 
> 
> Also, I intended to provide an illustration with this piece as I had done with the last one, but I didn't want to delay an upload any longer.


	4. In the Heat of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dakúk finds the odds were not in their favor.

Two times, three times, then four. Each blow of the bellowing horn rattled the very air the two orcs stood in. The thrumming tremors besieged the tightest kept caverns of Dakúk's head, the secluded areas he only used for his most withdrawn thoughts. To feel a force penetrate his mind so fully left him struggling to push the sounds from his bonce. A great agitation grew inside of him, an angry itch that sought to cease the vibration of his bones. He saw the same rage boil up in Lugnäk, the little archer baring a pair of predacious fangs while pulling the loose top of his hood over his exposed ears. His eyes, which always held a straight, true gaze, twitched in building irritation. Horns subsiding, he released his ears warily before once more clapping his heads over them. Another rumbling blast split the air and sent pebbles hopping at his feet.

" Agh! This betters not bes a drill!" Lugnäk whined. Despite being an arm's distance away, Dakúk barely heard him. The thrum subdued his voice into a mosquito's buzz. 

" 'Don't think it is!" It wasn't. The higher-ups never made effort for that sort of affair. They claimed it to be coddling and a waste of useful time. For what felt like an hour, though was in reality closer to a minute, the horns blew with paralyzing ferocity.

Then, as soon as they had started, the stopped. A blanketing calm swept over the fortress as the last of the blasts dissolved into whispering echoes. All of the towering walls' denizens, no matter if they were among the parapets or standing on ground, waited for what followed. Dakúk turned to Lugnäk. 

" I don't think I'll be able to get your order in today."

" No shrakh! Whos do you thinks it is? There ain't no tribe that was stirrin' up trouble last I heard." 

" Damned if I know. "

All around the courtyard, uruks began hustling about the ramparts and fencing grounds, picking up spears off of racks and hurrying out gates groups of captains were guiding them to. Boisterous shouts of boastful bets and pledges to the overlord melodized with the clang of swords bumping in comradery. A phantom string pulled at Dakúk's core, goading him to join the thundering crowd of warriors. Lugnäk was trailing his hands across his crossbow, idly clawing at minuscule splinters of wood. No less than twenty archers scurried across the nearest wall in a clambering mass, arrows at the ready. Lugnäk viewed them achingly. The spell of war was befalling both orcs.The pitmaster saw his little window of time dwindling away.

The archer looked back at him with a floundering expression, mouth gaping open and shut. 'Here it comes', thought the pitmaster. 'I ain't good with this gooey stuff.' They were at a loss for who should speak first. Dakúk wished he could simply smack the orc upside the head as to drive a word or two out of him. But, he withheld himself from sending the archer off to war in a resentful mood.

" I get a wholes keg of grog if I'm rights 'bout the Gravewalker thing, ya hears?" Lugnäk finally chided. Dakúk reminded himself to give the orc a whole keg of grog just for not getting sappy on him.

" I can't believe it. On the eve of battle and you still make time for that. " The pitmaster sighed back, half astonished, half relieved.

" We'll haves to see then won'ts we? I won't keeps up the bargains if you die, to be fair." 

" I ain't dying, trust me. But you better keep 'yer head low if ya wanna make it out." Dakúk warned.

Lugnäk guffawed sardonically. " I'm makin' it outs no matter whats. " Oh yes. Dakúk had forgotten about the archers' little pact. It was a story he regretted listening to. He'd never brought it up for fear some wandering ear would sew his lips with thread. The band of sharpshooters separated endeavors for furthering their self-interests from the fortress current of gossip. For an oligarchy of rumors, they were phenomenal at keeping secrets.

" 'Bunch of sneaky cowards." 

" Call us cowards all 'ya likes but we'll be the ones with hearts still beatin'!" Chirped the archer. "What's say this." He motioned his crossbow at a distant tower near the fortress's gloomy stone gates and sobered his cheer. " I'ms bettin' I'll be set up somewhere over theres. If things start goin's bads, and 'yer still huffin', I'lls do something 'ta get 'yer attentions." Considering the roar of the battlefield, Dakúk feared it would involve an arrow rather than a sharp shout for attention.

" Think the lads'll take kindly to me taggin' along?" 

" 'Course not. I'll speaks for 'ya if 'ya likes." Lugnäk offered. Two bolt lugging uruks, both bent with the weight of their load, barked down at Lugnäk to join them. He jumped at their voices and waved a shooing hand at the wall-goers. The crossbow ammo they wielded was without rust or wear, clearly a batch reserved for wartimes. Lugnäk's own spear-headed bolts were chipped and deteriorating from overuse. The pair of archers gave him a last, lingering look and hurried along. Down the ramparts, they chattered back and forth as to if their comrade was throwing in the towel early. It took little time for them to anomalously agree that neither truly cared.

" You better be goin' Lug." Dakúk said, tipping his head at the increasing armed battlements. 

Lugnäk hummed a sour note and nodded knowingly. His eyes had never left his fellows. He stepped back, hesitated in thought, then turned and jogged to the wall. His cumbersome crossbow swung left and right on his back as an offbeat pendulum, keeping clunking time with his steps. A short wave and a speedy "Good lucks!" was the last of him. Dakúk took his spear into both hands and immersed himself in a crowd of ground troops headed into the outermost layer of the fortress. Far ahead of the horde, a host of captains were bellowing about armor provisions. Dakúk was a lousy lip-reader, but the expressive hand gestures the orcs presented provided him a clear idea as to where to head. 

With the growing flow of the mass, Dakúk was swept to an area of the fort he had seldom visited. The unorganized rank and file of orcs he found himself with packed themselves into low roofed, open-walled shacks. Under each cloth roof sat the outlines of crates under leather tarps. The tarps were unceremoniously thrown aside by a charged swarm of hands to get at the goodies beneath. Bullying his way to the front of a gathering, Dakúk dove a pair of clawing mits into a half-empty crate and surfaced with two polished brassards. Feeling lucky with his find, he weaved around to another box nearly obscured by the crowd. An onlooker without context may have thought the battlefield had already been set. One uruk was jostled so carelessly that he almost went swimming in the crate. To the benefit of all, he was thrown out of the way and back into the mass of pother where he was serried between snarling comrades.

Dakúk exploited the newfound gap the orc's absence had created and slipped into the rumble. He thanked his good intuition upon seeing the reserve stash of chest-plates. A snaking arm sneaked its way over his shoulder to have a go at the crate's contents, which earned its owner a sharp elbow in the gut.

Dakúk latched to the plate of metal with the fewest hands on it and pulled until his arms burned. As ready to give an effort as he, his opponents only tightened their grip. Dakúk was proud of his abilities as a guard and considered himself able-bodied. However, he was smart enough to realize he wouldn't win his tug of war honestly and gave each hands' knuckles a good pounding. The howling curses their owners expelled were canorous. Dakúk clutched the armor to his torso as he withdrew from the scene to avoid the searching eyes. As usual, the grumbles quickly died away and were replaced with whines of other matters. It took less than a second to find an open shack whose crates lay empty. Inside, Dakúk joined the soldiers fitting into their wear.  
Idle chaffering overtook a few of the dressing orcs, most words relating to the disappointment they felt over their armor. Though new as possible and in peak condition, the plain metal did nothing for their personal appeals. Dakúk himself thought his chest plate to be the most banausic piece of armor he had ever seen. No ordainments, no little skulls, nothing. The brassards were a hint better with their few, curving marks, but not by much. There was little to secern his pieces from anyone elses'. Despite his initial dismay, he was pleasantly surprised by the adjustable straps the armor provided. Dakúk had feared the connecting leather bits would chafe against his underarms as they had in older sets. The chest plate was easy enough to put on after watching several others do the same, his only complaint had been the terrible chill it brought to his bare skin. He would remember to bring a tunic if he survived to see another battle. Down to his last accessories, he applied the brassards to his forearms and realized he was farther ahead than many of his comrades.

Far from fully decked with metal, Dakúk still felt well dighted by his wear, and decided not to wander back to the crates, all of which had undoubtedly been picked clean. To add the finishing touches, he lathered his fingers in a mix of war paint a neighboring soldier had been generous enough to afford him and marked a set of vermicular swaths on his face and neck. Less than artful, they appeared hastily drawn and hectically placed.

The soldiers were given no time to prink themselves up. The captains that had been surveying the newly armored soldiers barked a plethora of screaming commands for the horde to start moving once more, ushering them farther towards the outer walls.

Multiple captains and their designated soldiers joined them along the way, separate groups ogling the new gear the other held. The lads Dakúk had fallen in with had considered themselves top of their game until they spied the sleek, steel scimitars others had lucked out on. In return, those not of their group whined amongst themselves as to why they hadn't gotten a pick at the armor sets. Independently, the most perceptive of the bunch came to realize why some had been adorned with battling assets and others had not. Enlighted on the situation, they began to worry.

" I think they ran outta' stuff. " Whispered an orc to Dakúk's right. He kept quiet to listen to what the orc's pal would say before he discovered HE was the one being talked to.

" O-oh, what?" He said, thoroughly caught off guard.

"I'm bettin' that's what happened. Look at 'em blokes way up there in front of us, they ain't got no fresh pikes or swords, just 'eir normal blades. It don't bode well."

Indeed, most of the warriors at the front of the horde marched holding only the rusty knives and battered short swords that were typically kept on person. Fine for daily use as scuffling weapons, they dearly lacked the quality of what was needed on the battlefield.

" It ain't as bad as you're makin' it. Most folks got a clean piece of metal to stick on themselves." 

" Yeah, a piece! That's the problem. Why ain't we marching off in full sets? Look, you can see the cappins' gettin' frightened." 

With the little space he had, the talkative orc pointed to a pair of captains that had elevated themselves on the roof of a butchering hut. Together, arms crossed, they were mouthing words that Dakúk could not perceive. But, as the orc had said, they did appear fidgety. Not fidgety in the way one got when readying for a lively battle, but fidgety with unsurety, a bad look for a stony uruk captain. Dakúk tried to view the two as picking their palms in anticipation, but couldn't ignore the worried looks his conversationalist had pointed out.

"Even if we don't exactly have all the goods, there's enough of us to storm Minas Ithil another time over." Dakúk reasoned, both with the orc and with himself.

Before he could get a reply, the groups they had been a part of began to split into separate divisions. The last barrier between them and whatever force was waiting outside, the fortress's gates, loomed overhead.

A great, violent rumbling constantly shook the cracking soil they stood on, undoubtedly caused by the many stamping feet waiting outside their front door. From the sound of it alone Dakúk would have guessed the whole of Mordor had come to give them a good thrashing. That may not have been far from the truth, as Dakúk recognized the low roars of caragors and grumblings of graugs dotting the overall clamor of war cries. Some of the captains, who had noticed the somber disposition their underlings had slumped into, gave an effort to stir up a clamor amongst their own troops. The soldiers themselves were in no mood to join along, which left the captains in an uncomfortable state as they registered the dread being summoned up. Besides the expected whispering between the most well-tongued and known the chatter, the rank and file were silent as stones. All were rabbits in a deep bought of freezing horripilation. 

Dakúk decided the united, whooping scream that erupted outside was the genesis of his destruction and steeled himself for an avalanche of bodies to pound against the great stone walls. The sound of the charge was indeed very close to the tumbling tremor an avalanche created, but somehow a bit more terrifying. The inability to actually see the threat was certainly part of it. The archers lining the ramparts, poor, ill-fated souls who were cursed with seeing the magnitude of their doom, readied bubbling cauldrons of tar. Each container of vile blackness was half the height of its handlers and filled with enough muck to cover three orcs head to toe. Their time to shine came when hulking iron clubs started an onslaught against the fort's walls. The archers heaved and hoed to tip the cauldrons on their plated swivels. With about two to four orcs to each pot, they were able to tip them over with ample speed. The boiling goop flowed into lengthy metal pipes that lined the defensive fronts and gushed out spewing chutes. Momentarily victorious cackles rang out from the tops of the gate. The unfortunate olog-hai who had been fustigating the walls shrieked in horror as their eyes were sizzled in their sockets and their mouths were glued shut. Now gurgling on the flesh-searing tar, their shouts were replaced with last gasps for breath and unintelligible roars. The archers ceased their laughs when a well-shot arrow downed one of their own. They hunkered down against outcroppings of stone to set bolts into their crossbows. Dakúk was glad to see an absence of Lugnäk among them, deducting he had been called to the back lines in case of a far-extending breech. Then, he wondered how he would receive the signal.

The crossbow wielders, having run through their collection of tar, resorted to taking pot-shots. There was no skill to landing an arrow on the heads of reinforcements that had come to continue on the wall. They angrily writhed as a roaring mass, leaving no ground to be seen beneath them. It may have been what sparked the little nods the archers gave to each other between reloadings. The collective acknowledgment of the sea of heads gave rise to the notion that perhaps they were slightly outnumbered.

Dakúk watched as the thick, wooden door that protected them from the outside world bent and bowed from the weight of the enemy. The archers had sprang down from the wall as soon as the gate began to give in. Large splinters flew off from where the wood was stressed the most, hitting a few of the crowns of the fort's soldiers. The crowd clutched their weapons dearly and gave the gate a wide berth. Those that had not been light on their feet were given a last view of the door as it fell down upon them. 

Past that moment there was little time for thought. The tidal wave of orcs had plowed into them like a charging herd of buffalo. Dakúk did not bother himself with remembering strategy or technique, he simply battered whoever was placed in front of him. His pike sank down into the ribcage of a trampled orc, ceasing its struggles, then was ripped out and plunged into the leg of another. A helmeted orc nearly took off his arm with a cleaver before he was able to land a gruesome swipe across its face. His claws made mincemeat of the flesh.

Twice he felt his shoulder slashed in the first seconds of battle and swung his pike in the direction of the attacker. Catching only air, he lost his balance in the powerful lurch and fell onto his side. Taken off guard, he flailed his arms madly in a race to catch himself. His pike fell from his hands and was swallowed by the surrounding battle. The wind was driven out of him with painful force, his collision with a shelled corpse setting off tiny 'pops' in his abdomen. He hacked silent, mouthing coughs, frantically clawing himself off of the mashed body. His clouded mind, through the haze of blood-lust, registered something was VERY wrong with his chest. His breaths stopped short with a tight pain, as if someone was squeezing his lungs half shut. He floundered around in a fit to situate his legs beneath himself, but to no avail. Dakúk may has well have been a doormat. A pair of flat boots stomped across his shoulder, widening the open tears and packing them with brown grime. If he lived, they would surely form nasty, scabby blebs. Another foot landed on his head then back, registering him as another corpse and nothing more. The flavor of copper in his mouth intensified until he did well to empty his lips with a ripping cough.

The fight was not at all what he had imagined. Why had they not charged onto the fields to meet their foes? Why was it all so damn dense? 

The signal, where was it?

The reminder of the escape Lugnäk had offered filled his mind with momentary clarity. "Run." He thought, "That's all I need to do." The captains and their demand for loyalty could be damned. He wouldn't die for them. His own flayed hands pulled him towards the blurry outline of a wall. He could not tell if he was at the gate, or had been pushed to the inner confines of the fortress. Bodies and buildings blended together in the midst of a newfound boost of adrenaline. By dint of will, he promised himself he would survive.

The number of boots that assailed him dwindled as he reached the edge of the scuffle. Bodies plopped next to him in wet 'thumps', speckling his face with black dots. His own dark blood was among the stains. Sick as a blessing as it was, the littering of corpses provided him with protective camouflage. Any orcs that may have taken pleasure in running him through had not been able to distinguish his form from that of the dead's.

Through little gains and a diligence Dakúk hadn't thought to be in him, he arrived at the stone barrier, placing his hands on the cool rock. There was no time for rest.  
His claws hooked onto whatever holds he could find. Bruised with rotten colour, arms pained to pull himself up against the wall. His legs faired better, having received the least battering. Minor slips here and there troubled the process, but he was standing in no time. And once he was standing, he made it his priority to escape. Despite the sloshing in his boots and the aches in his joints, he hobbled with a vigor rivaling that of any other. The resounding, reassuring thought of a way out of the mess he'd fallen into kept his limbs moving and his eyes sharp for danger. No longer trapped under the force of an army, his mind returned to him in slow progress. First, he realized that he was bleeding from nearly every hole on his face and that his breathing was settling into an irregular pattern of huffs and wheezes. Secondly, he came to notice how the wall had suddenly given way from his fingers. In its place was a gaping hole half filled with rubble. 

The frowsty dust wafting up from the recent destruction tickled his nose and stuck to the grime. Unsure as to whether it held what he saught, he clambered up onto the crumbling stone and peeked as to what lay beyond. From a short climb down a gently sloping ridge, a grassless field of rocks lay ahead. Baren and empty, it lead into a familiar path. Dakúk could hear the clanging of blades he had left behind grow louder, and decided there was no time to weight options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not very pleasant to write as yes, describing wounds in overly gruesome ways can be fun, but researching the effects of varying trauma on the body is not. A little gross, really.
> 
> I am so eager to begin to next chapter, because I know I'm going to have lots of fun with it.


	5. An Irony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dakúk, broken by battle, seeks refuge and does not find it.

Down the sloping stone and onto the rocks he tumbled. Without pause, he raised himself and continued onward. The "thoom" of collapsing stonework sent his feet into a mad shuffle. He glanced behind to catch the final moments of one of the fort's prestigious towers. Two gaping holes, each five uruks wide, had been blown into its side. The top ring of stone began to violently slide to the left, bringing much of the layers below along with it. The tower's decent could not have been stopped.  In a matter of seconds, its outline disappeared from the sky, leaving an unsettlingly naked openness. Above the rumbling tremors, Dakúk caught faint cheers from the fortress's new owners. He looked away in dread.  
  
The path he hobbled towards snaked down and behind a rocky hide, one he was accustomed to passing through. It sat directly in the center of his line of sight, a hopeful beacon. The tentative steps he took to limit his aches left him slow, and there was no end of backward peeps to ensure he was not being pursued. Once at the rocky outcroppings that hid the path, he ducked behind a wall and gingerly removed a brassard. It had pounded its pattern between his shoulder and elbow, leaving tender, red marks with matching indentations. Free of the metal stamp, the skin began to return to its regular color. Dakúk tossed it with the little strength in his arm and glanced at his chestplate. He inhaled sharply at the condition of the armor, then regretted the mistake when a stabbing pain erupted from his lungs. To sooth this, he shrunk his breath to the smallest puffs he could.   
  
From sleek and shiny, the chest plate had evolved into a pitiful thing. Nearly every bit of metal had been dented this way or that.  The entire surface of the front pressed against his chest as if it wished to constrict him like a great serpent. He grimaced and hoped the mess looked worse outside than it did inside.   
  
Thrice the straps escaped his fluttering hands, slipping out of his clutch from either wet grime or the shivering he couldn't seem to curb. Now hammered close to his body, the metal was a chore to remove. He didn't wish to scrape against the wounds that lied beneath but feared to have the wear the plating for any longer. It was stubborn and required four good tugs to pull off, for a sticky residue had begun to form under it.  
  
The openings that littered his torso, many unworthy of note, others needing stitches, did not evoke his worry. The flow that had been a torrent of black liquid had diminished into a leisurely drip. In an odd affair of a mixed blessing, Dakúk became grateful for the compression the chestplate had provided. He left it with the brassard on the ground.  
  
The removed burden made his movement more tolerable, letting him quicken his haste. The red stone moved by at a pace he was content to keep.  As it did so he contemplated where to steal himself away to. The slaves' quarters had water troughs he knew of, but he feared catching an ailment from the tepid, ill-kept liquid. It was said that the trough, beside the natural human musk, was what gave the hut its foul haze. Most slaves were continuously beset with tortured bowels from the water. It was no mystery why the keepers and trainers of the men would wear stiff, leathery guards over the lower portions of their faces. The root of the problem could have been undone had they simply diverted from their lazy ways and refilled the troughs every so often. It left the humans taking chances for water at the expense of others' time. Those who would rather risk a whipping than another tortured squat would slink away to the depths of the caves to lick at the drops that sometimes leaked from the stone. Whenever he noticed a slave of his edging back, he would avert his eyes. They must have thought him oblivious, but he found tolerating these sorts of absences was worth easing their stink, despite the strict protocols against such leniency.   
  
Besides the lack of aid the quarters would provide, there was also the fact that he would be a lone uruk, dearly battered, in the midst of a building's worth of slaves. He had an overall poor opinion of humans, for compared to his breed, they were not at all suited for combat and laughably delicate. However, he wasn't stupid enough to believe himself impervious to them. He had heard of slave turning on master before. There had been plenty risk simply guarding six or eight as he had in the mines. Dakúk had never been fond of the imposed ratio of men to uruk. It felt as if they had been purposefully set at a disadvantage.  
  
The growing call for water his body elicitated granted his mind a clear solution to his conundrum. A memory of a small pool, a sheltered cave, and a wasted piss break reemerged. He hadn't stepped foot near the hidden place since his little encounter with the thief. It was no wonder, for he hadn't particularly enjoyed the bizarre run-in. A fair chunk of his humility and a perfectly roasted graug's tail had been lost that day. The hearty batting his excursions had given him hadn't done much to tempt him either. Dakúk had severely underestimated Paguk's sense of passing time.  
  
Faster than he realized, the red stone on both of his sides gave way to an open field once more, revealing the ghostly figure of the slave house and the barely noticeable snaking line far behind it. At his position, the canyon was hardly there.   
  
Typical of the evenings (and of war), not an uruk could be spotted snooping about the shabby barn-like structure. Not even a slave-keeper creeping around the big wooden doors of the slave house. This was quite odd, as the slave-keepers had a particular fondess for creeping. Dakúk, who couldn't be happier to see an absence of life, let his flopping feet fall into a calmer pattern. This did wonders for his chest, removing an extra huff he had hated taking.   
  
He passed by the house with wary eyes, hoping the creaky doors wouldn't suddenly fly open, revealing a horde of slaves hungry for vengeance. It was a very unlikely circumstance, yet he worried himself with the thought nonetheless. Just to be safe, he softened his steps until he was a comfortable distance from the building. In his uneasy state of mind, he neglected to notice the disappearance of a bar from the doors.  
  
The crack in the land grew wider and wider until, standing over the edge, he could peer into its depths. The sun floated on the horizon like a fishing-bob on a pond, leaving the canyon dismal and foreboding. It was akin to the predatory maw of a beast of the land, ready to swallow him up. However, he trusted the cavity of the cave over the expanse of the open fields and tried to disregard the similarity. Dakúk touched heel to wood in a trying motion, then shifted his weight onto the first scaffold. He repeated this tenaciously, allowing himself but a moment's rest between platforms. At times he had to transfer himself quickly so as to not test the strength of cables, though this was the worst of the descent. After perhaps the longest he had ever taken, Dakúk arrived at the base. The pain he'd ignored for the whole ideal caught up to him in a burst of traditional orcish curses. For his own benefit, he kept them reserved to a muted whisper. The clamber had been less than kind to his battered legs, which he mourned for the most. He gingerly brushed over them with his hands, hovering at times for fear of causing more ache.  
  
The slice and diced flesh his armor had made of his chest was checked hurriedly in a routine examination he had grown accustomed to since the battle. If it could be pinched with his fingers, he'd pull a piece of tinder grass or mass of grime from a gash and clench his jaw. He much preferred this to letting the dirt rub against the wound. He had no idea if his efforts would lessen the inevitable infections.  
  
Dakúk prepared to slide down the edge of the continued path, letting his gaze drift to the mine's entrance. An almost homely image, it begged him to draw closer, for old time's sake. Had it possessed eyes, they would be watching him with fervor. In fact, he swore he sensed a pair hidden there, a watcher within the depths. A sense of melancholy at the thought of an odd home he'd never see again hid a feeling Dakúk knew to be dread. Unfounded, maybe. The old place had never been a favorite of his, more like an old relative that one had been forced to tolerate than anything. Still a member of the family. Against better judgment, he approached, but if only to convince himself there were no monsters lying in the dark and, of course, to say farewell. Once the curiosity and goodbyes were cleared he would be on his way, far from the cave's sight.   
  
It was not long before the stone ceiling was over his head and one foot sat in the shadow. The entrance lay behind him, several stones' throws back. He squinted his eyes, certain there would be no movement within the blackness.   
  
There wasn't. Suspicions dealt with, he turned to hurry out of the unwelcoming maw, only to be halted by a swift strike to the head.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Voices. They bickered back and forth in a hushed, hissing tone that drove him mad. It was the first thing he awoke to, and it did no good for his throbbing head. The pulsing beat of the blood that flowed through his temple kept him from understanding the words they used, which was more than irritating. He could not recall a time when he had felt so groggy and hazed. A few draught guzzling contests had come close, but they had well been worth the headache. Nothing could make up for this.   
  
The continuous buzz of voices that swelled and dipped in pitch became less irritating over time as he grew accustomed to the dull ache of his head. Every minute, a sharp, shooting agony would be set off by the shriller of the two, though the rhythm of the voices eased him into an almost mindless state. It reminded him of the muddled chatter he'd listen to in the mines. What a drowsy hum it made.  
  
He let himself fall into a deeper slumber than before.  
  
When he awoke, he felt far from rested. What may have been morning pains racked his battered limbs, and he was quickly reminded of his head. Immediately, he opened his eyes to face whatever foe had clobbered his poor crown. Then, he opened them again. And again. He tried opening and closing his eyes one last time before realizing that he couldn't see a thing. Still half-full, he lungs were sent a huffing and wheezing in worry. Hoping for a miracle he blinked rapidly and shook his head despite the pain. He was fully prepared to fall into a fit of panic over the loss of his sight, then felt the fabric rub against his face and the knot roll on the back of his head. Any self-loathing he felt for his stupidity was shadowed by relief.  
  
Unsurprisingly, he felt his other bodily assets had been hindered as well. His wrists, positioned behind him, had been tethered together in a wrapping while his legs felt as if they were chained to one another. He wriggled fervently to try to pull his limbs loose of the bonds, but was without success. The rock floor he had been laid on dug into his back, causing Dakúk to struggle into an awkward kneel while his guard watched with hesitant curiosity. Figuring it would now be appropriate to approach the beast, he unholstered his sword and took a light step forward.  
  
It writhed and uttered short, panting grunts while attempting to position itself upright. The scattered light in the small dent of a cave illuminated a sorry image. Half of the orc was a blackish grime, the other half a slew of festering wounds. It sent an icy worm up his spine to look upon the scabs for too long. The feeling was slightly quelled by the fact that they belonged to someone who deserved them, but it unsettled him still.  
  
There certainly wasn't an easy way to go about this, confronting a beast. He doubted it would break free of its bonds, they had maintained his own imprisonment extraordinarily well despite his valiant efforts. The true question was how to initiate interaction with it. Sooner or later it would sniff him out, as he knew orcs had a sense for all things man-stink. This would be easiest, to wait for the orc to begin growl at him and feign indifference until his comrade returned. But he desperately wanted to see the sudden freeze when he announced his presence, to put his sword back in its scabbard and draw it out once more just so the orc could hear the blade. It was so very tempting.   
  
His chance was nearly lost on him when the end of his foot sent a pebble skidding across the stone. Dakúk's head pitched upwards in a startled snap, before turning towards the man. The soldier slowed his hands so as to keep the sheathing of his sword silent.  
  
" It was quite convenient of you to drop by. You seldom visit past late-evening."   
  
The effect was immediate. He heard the cusp of a croak before a low, menacing growl hurridly replaced it. Its great, tusked mouth contorted into a wide frown, but he had a feeling that the eyes under the blindfold did not share the same bold façade. " I-" The orc's crackling voice stopped itself in a small fit of whoops. He hacked an awfully dry cough, then gurgled for a moment before a glob, dark and vile, was spat across the cave. A great heave was then required to gather up another lung-full of air. His throat begged him to do no more.   
  
The rather disappointed man drew closer. While the beast had slumbered, he had taken notice of its dreadful heaves. Nasty as they were, he hadn't expected them to shut the thing up. It had even ceased its monotone growls.   
  
"You have nothing to say?"  
  
The snarling face stared back for an uncomfortable amount of time.   
  
Then, with great visible effort, a slow suspenseful gulp of air, and the expression of a land-stranded fish, the orc spoke.  
  
"What do you want?" The man was slightly taken aback by the earnesty in his voice. It certainly wasn't the death threat he'd been hoping for. He'd expected for the guard to have the vigor left for that, at least. The uruk before him had been quite a formidable foe last he saw him. Not the scariest of the mine orcs, no, that would be the big dark one with the toothy maw. The monster of an uruk could bore holes into the soul of a man with a glance. He'd rather go ball-room dancing with a balrog than look him in the eyes. But Dakúk had been menacing enough. He would always be reminded of the strength in those arms when receiving a disciplinary cuff on the ear. They had never left a mark, but it was certainly a taste of what the brute could dish out.  
  
"Perhaps revenge. My fellows would wish me to indulge myself, I know." He teased his sword out of its scabbard and watched with subdued humor as the orc flinched. " I'm sure you can imagine what they already would have done where they here." Oh yes, Dakúk had a very clear image. " And, I must admit, I am tempted to do the same." Was this his thanks for being a fair master? The regret of allowing them their little leisures came in droves. He had risked running a reputation many times for the thankless tarks, and this was its payoff. Absolutely nothing. He had even been a bit fond of the soldier! Well, not in any real sense of the word, he simply preferred the gondorian over the others. But in Mordor, that was could certainly be equated to a form of "fondness". He should have treated the brat more harshly.  
  
The man must have noticed his indignant puffing, for he made a chiding "tsk"-ing sound and leaned closer. " Don't waste your little energy making a fit. I won't have you wearing yourself out before I'm finished here." Though it rubbed his throat raw, Dakúk formed a half-hearted rumble in the back of his throat.   
  
He heard a sigh before the flat end of a sword pushed up against his chin, shutting his mouth with a small clack. "Stop that."   
  
Dakúk's outward defense was momentarily flattened by the odd gesture. It was almost chastening. As soon as he had regained that sudden, lost rage, the smell of man-stink had wafted away, leaving only the faint odor one would use to track with. His nose, which was no longer crowded with the stench, recognized the sapping dryness of the air. It was a great relief to know that he wasn't stuffed away in a tunnel or bound in a pit. Still, that left a plethora of other places to be.  
  
His train of thought slammed to a stop when the stink returned. The crunching of boots on dirt grew louder until he swore the man could not be standing more than an arm's length away. A material with leathery texture was settled against his lips before they were met with the trickle of liquid. Proud as he was, Dakúk wasn't about to turn his nose up at the offering. He drank carefully, allowing the water to wet his throat, but not drown it. The last thing he wanted was to choke on the blessing. The first sips tasted only of blood, for his mouth had suffered wounds of its own.   
  
Dakúk had barely had his fill when the flask was pulled away. In a feeble attempt to steal another drop, he leaned after it, only to be pushed away by a palm.   
  
"You're lucky I've allowed you this much." To Dakúk it had seemed less than a drop, not at all a sacrifice on the man's behalf. The opposite was true per the soldier's perspective. The greedy orc had downed half the waterskin and tainted the remaining water with its foul, black blood. He had half a mind to forfeit the sullied liquid to his captive but decided it was best not to grow too soft.   
  
"Are you going to kill me?" The orc's voice was less crackly than before, partially soothed by the water.   
  
"I should. It is my duty as a soldier of Gondor. There would be honor in killing a slaver like you." Chilled steel met his neck, daring to press just a fair further. Dakúk held his breath for fear of severing his own head. Why wouldn't the damnable slave hurry through with it? It must have been part of the punishment, to drive his hopes up then watch them crash.  
  
"However," The pressure of the blade disappeared, "I believe more justice has been done to you than I could ever deal out." Aharenor did not revel in bloody vengeance.  Proud man that he was, he thought himself higher than to stoop to habits of Mordor's citizens. Besides, the guard's fright had done a fair job of satisfying whatever revenge he had sought. " 'Can't imagine how you pulled yourself out of the battle. I'm surprised you're even awake after that bludgeoning I gave you."  
  
"It still hurts." Dakúk's head throbbed in agreement.   
  
"Yes, well, I wasn't exactly trying to lull you to sleep." Snorted the man.  
  
There was a lshort silence between the two of them. From what Dakúk could hear, the man had begun rummaging through a pack some ways away. It gave him time to dwell on a thought.  
  
"You know 'bout the siege?" He asked. Aharenor pulled out the wrapped ration he had been looking for, pulling apart the parchment to grab at the dried meat.   
  
"Impossible not to. I suspect the whole of Mordor heard the alarm. Those warhorns are damnably loud. " He gnawed on the leather-like strip, finding it refused to be bitten into. The subtle aroma of the morsel teasingly drifted around the cave. "We heard the whispers between our keepers and put two and two together." A narrow sliver of meat broke free from the piece, which Aharenor set to chewing on. "The siege of your fort provided ample opportunity for escape. Our 'trainers'," He hissed, " were forgetful in their hast. We made sure to keep them from their duties." His voice grew sour.  
  
The immediate thought Dakúk had, of three hundred angry menfolk wandering the wilderness, was less than comforting. He felt lucky, despite the circumstances. At least he knew this tark. Not divulged time into learning about, of course not. But his eavesdropping had afforded him insight into the gondorian's character, thanks in part to the slave's incessant chatter. There might be predictability in his actions which he could use to his advantage,  _if_ he was clever about it.  
  
"Listen!" The voice startled Dakúk into a mild panic. He turned his head back towards the voice, realizing he had slowly lost awareness of the man's talking. The last words he could recall involved a complaint over the state of the puny cave they were in.   
  
"What?" He mumbled, shaking the fog from his head. There was much regret when it stirred up another headache.  
  
"Don't nod off on me when I allowed you to awake in the first place." Aharenor scorned harshly. The none-too-subtle threat pushed Dakúk to lift his eyelids higher despite not being able to see more than the cloth over them. His eyelashes rubbed against the fabric in an irritable fashion. Maybe if the man was in his position he would understand the compulsion to drift off. The motionless kneeling was not so unlike standing in the mines, rocking to the left every so often, then catching yourself before you fell asleep. _"Except,"_ he thought in sad humor, _" I'm no longer the one doing the guarding."_ It would have been nice to have his pike to lean on. Alas, he remembered how it escaped him on the battlefield. Snapped in half, likely. Behind Lugnäk, it had been a good friend, as ridiculous as that was.  
  
Sensing his audience was occupying himself with others thoughts, Aharenor moved closer to hover over the orc. The ration he had been working on sat uncomfortably out of his stomach, his efforts barely making a dent in the strip. Dakúk tilted his head up at him, less defiant than when he awoke. The blindfold seemed silly now, for there was no commanding captain for the orc to report back to, and the fort's new holders would likely kill him if he returned. It quickly befell him that he had gotten thoroughly caught up in scare tactics. He could not be wholly blamed, for weeks in the mine's had left him aching for a thrill. And what would be more thrilling than a dramatic confrontation with a cruel, former oppressor? Now, it seemed more self-indulging than heroic.  
  
The cloth covering Dakúk's eyes was pulled taut for a moment, squashing his already blunt nose even flatter. The cool sensation of metal tingled across the back of his head as an object was slipped between skull and cloth. There were a few, short tugs before the tightness was gone and the fabric flittered past Dakúk's nose, giving it a sneeze-inducing tickle. His eyes took their time adjusting to the light, noticing the cave he sat in was oddly well-lit. His sight evened out within seconds, allowing him a clear view of the cross, flaxen-haired gondorian above him. 


	6. Curious Captivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation begins and ends, and Dakúk mulls over the last day.

It occurred to Dakúk he had only seen the bright golden hair twice before. The first he could recall well, remembering the scores of captured menfolk their good trading partners from the south had arranged for them. The second was the day after, when its color had been muted, but still showed through. He hadn't seen a strand of yellow since then. Countless layers of black dust, a new one for each day, had packed themselves on top of skin and scalp, thoroughly stripping the men of their outward individuality. Every color was suppressed under a blanket of grime or replaced with the dark hue of a coal vein. By methods unknown, his human had partially cleansed it from his mane, restoring perhaps half of its original tone. A mess of a head, by the man's own standards. Still, it had felt good to clear his skin to the air. To be free of the plastering made up for the loss of two now  _very_ dirty handkerchiefs.  
  
The stare they both held soon became uncomfortable. Dakúk turned his head aside and focused on a pebble to free himself from the locked glare. He kicked himself, simmering over how submissive he must appear, allowing a  _slave_ of all people to stare him down. He made an attempt to soothe the wound by reasoning the man had once been a warrior. It helped, but the fact that he was kneeling in front of a human, slave or soldier, was humiliating.   
  
"Don't get too excited now." Warned the man, "That was me being generous. Don't expect any of your bonds to be removed, I'll not do you another kindness." Kindness? It had been a decency at the best. The human had always had a proud cockiness to him, but this was absurd. It was amazing what a position of power could do to some folks.  
  
"Hmph" Dakúk grunted. " I thought men were 'spposed ta be fair with their prisoners."   
  
Aharenor promptly ignored the taunt, acting as if it had never reached his ears. Holding back his rebuttal was well worth the strained glare he received. Let him see how little his words mattered. Orcs were known to be void of empathy, but perhaps he could gain insight into how it felt to be helpless, unlistened to. Perhaps the orc would understand the grief he'd suffered in his captivity. Aharenor thanked the Valar for his freedom. To finally be in control, it was a breath of fresh air.  
  
" I myself have no business with you. Had it been my choice, I would have left you with that headache in the mines. My friend, however, insisted we drag you along with us, if only for a short while. " Aharenor continued. Knowing the slave was not alone startled Dakúk, for he was having enough trouble with  _one_ man, and to factor in another threatened to revive his headache. Then again, there had been a second voice there in the haze, hadn't there? If he strained himself, he could faintly remember that strange period between sleep and consciousness. It was difficult. His body had prioritized staying alive over collecting details, thankfully.  
  
" Will  _they_ kill me?" He asked. His slave was apparently uninterested in past times of torture, so it would make sense if he had been captured to sate another's need. A fitting candidate came to mind, and with a few short thoughts, Dakúk was nearly convinced of the identity of the unseen partner. As far as slaving guards went, Dakúk had been on the forbearing side. He'd allow rules to be bent, as long as they were monitored, and reserved his hand for those that acted in ways he deemed improper. A nasty word flung his way would earn the perpetrator a hefty dose of discipline, and those that dared to rest their picks were dealt with similarly. A punt in the gut or hand across the face would show them the error of their ways. All the better if his swings left bruises. A fair guard through and through.  
  
However, he'd keep falling back into self-indulging habits.   
  
By human standards, the slave had been wormy.  _That_ was saying something. He'd snivel and sneak, ducking his head to fall out of the sight of his guard. It had not taken long for Dakúk to become seasoned to the slave's efforts. Soon it became a game of "Find the Tark", a fun little sport that filled the tunnels with the scent of a fear so raw, it left his mouth watering. Every single time that aroma of panic had reached his nostrils, he'd gotten a rush. Small, but impossible to ignore. Few would come to the slave's aid at these times. Among the other men he was largely disliked, finding company in the three or four that were too patriotic to spurn a fellow citizen of Gondor. Had he been of Bree or Rohan, they would have left him to suffer alone.   
  
The slave whose protection of the rat had been the most genuine had been Aharenor. It was typical, the man had too strong a sense of honor and not enough common sense. Dakúk would round a corner into a dead end, hungering for the sweet aroma of fear. It would be unlike any feeling he'd felt before, intense and complete. The effort of his suspenseful steps and whispered threats would be wasted when he was met with a flurry of defiant words. Aharenor would throw his arms out wide in front of the cowering man, preventing any fun from being had. He'd ask for Dakúk to spare the man and would offer himself in place, which Dakúk had thought of as extremely attention seeking. Behind him, the other slave would cower and mumble prays to the Valar.  
  
Frankly, this ruined the entire ordeal. He had chosen the rat for a  _reason_. He was, by far, the lowest of the low. An outcast among his own kind. To substitute him for another ruined the appeal of the game. To substitute him for Aharenor made it a game no more. There was no doubt the human would use his abuse to fuel his own image as a righteous soldier.   
  
So, Dakúk would begrudgingly stomp away, wishing the tark would mind his own business. When he was even less tolerant of the human's antics, he'd throw him aside and give him a helping of advice, typically involving lessons as to what happened to slaves that went against their master's wishes. By then, the anticipation he'd have built up would have completely dissipated and he'd no longer be in the mood for his nasty habits.  
  
" Ah, well you will have to see, won't you? " Damnit! Why couldn't he give him a little peace of mind? It was better to know his fate than kept in a prolonged state of suspense. "You must think of yourself as a greatly wanted foe for us to waste what we have on a soon to be dead orc." The human grimaced in his words, revealing two rows of disgustingly white and shiny teeth. They reminded Dakúk of the bleached bones of a skeleton, not at all yellow and faded like healthy teeth should be.   
  
Aharenor's mocking tone was both an irritation and a comfort. It would be foolish to waste a commodity as precious on water on an orc that was to be executed. The other man could be allowing a sacrifice of supplies for something more drawn out and harrowing, but it didn't seem likely. Grudges aside, it would have been smarter to do what one willed with him at his time of capture.  
  
"So," continued the man, " I have answered your question, which means it is only fitting that you answer one of mine."   
  
Dakúk's stomach, having been brought to new life by the quenching trickle of water, was becoming more aggressive with its demands to be filled. It felt offputtingly empty, like a loose burlap sack in his midsection, and filled his body with tiny rumbles. The savory, subtle aroma of flesh which wafted about the cave only spurred it onward, akin to a carrot on a stick. It was a delicious odor that starkly contrasted the natural frowsty scent of the stone. The man, he knew, had been absent-mindedly knawing on the source of this temptation, was a tease in its own right. To watch the meat disappear down his throat was torturous, and Dakúk would have asked him to put it away if it wouldn't have been so damn revealing of his weakness. The auric haired human must have realized its effect on him, for he put the meat back in its papers when he noticed Dakúk's wistful eyes.   
  
Now was the time to test the waters. "I expect a little extra compensation." Stated Dakúk flatly. Aharenor flashed him an insulted look, putting a defensive hand over his ration. Dakúk wondered for a moment if his attempt had been too daring before the human's expression mellowed and his hand drifted away from the wrappings.  
  
" Hmmp." He snorted. " It slipped my mind to keep it from your sight."  _"And smell."_ Thought the man. If he concentrated there  _was_ a faint, meaty aroma  to it. The sinewy flesh of caragor was nearly scentless when fresh, so to pick up a scent on a piece so salted and chalked was a small surprise. It was nothing he would have noticed normally, but he assumed his orc had picked up on it right away. Aharenor felt foolish for being so careless, for now his prisoner was giving him a troubling look. He had seen those same ravenous eyes on the skeletal street dogs of Minas Tirith as a child. Feeling pity, he'd offer a caressing hand only to have them rip away whatever delicacy he held in the other. He had quickly learned to keep his pastries held high. Paper was picked aside as he retrieved the ration once more.   
  
The ration in his hand was no pastry, no matter how much he wished it so, but he felt the same caution he had as a young lad. To grow too caring would leave him vulnerable to this dog of his, and he was not keen on becoming companionable with a creature of Mordor. But he was so  _damned_ curious.  
  
"Answer the question and it is yours," Aharenor stated. He was in the mood for a story. " What occurred during the siege?"  
  
Dakúk produced a breathless sigh and tried to gently pull the memories from his head. All he had to do was speak, and then he could eat. It was a thought he held onto it, knowing there was a reason he hadn't thought back on the battle since now. He could not tell how long it had been since the battle. Hours, days, weeks, he could not connect it to a time for he felt as if he had slept for an eternity. Perhaps the event had been a terrible, nightmarish fever dream. Perhaps the blonde gondorian and the damnable caragor jerky were also the creation of his dozing mind. He clung to these hopeful thoughts, but not by much. There had never been this much hurt in his dreams, never this much  _fear_ , of all things. The emotions that slowly filled him were not so thankfully simple as the ones he was used to. For most of his life he had had the pleasure of feeling one thing at a time. If he was angry, he was angry and nothing more. If he was bored then there were was no room for anything else inside. They were suited for the unpredictable emotions of men, not for a soldier of Mordor. There had been several moments that stood out from his life that had spurred such complicated feelings, but they had been few and far between.   
  
He started with what he could properly remember.  
  
He spoke first of the horns, the blaring cries that awakened a thirst within him. It was astounding how quickly he had lost that desire for blood once the odds had turned against him. Dakúk refrained from mentioning the small, mischievous archer. To dwell on the subject of the quickshot for too long brought a wave of anger and confusion. A nagging part of him maintained the idea that he had been betrayed or forgotten. It would not be surprising. He couldn't have expected the shifty orc to make an effort to save anyone's hide but his own. It would have been in his nature. Still, it stung.  
  
For a fair portion of his short life, he had thought of the uruk as a close ally. Walking to the courtyard every day after his shift and spending an hour or so speaking with Lugnäk had lulled him into a sheltering routine. It had made him comfortable, weak even.   
  
The more reasonable part of him detested this conspiracy. Lugnäk could not fully be blamed, for who could have predicted the full chaos of the battle? The orcs had filled the courtyard in a sweeping mass, crashing over the fort's inhabitants. To pick out one soldier from another would not have been easy. From above, it was likely akin to watching mounds of ants snap at each other. Who was to say the archer would not have fired a bolt into his skull, thinking he was a member of the enemy? There was also the likelihood that Lugnäk  _had_ tried to signal him, but he had been too oblivious to notice. What a blunder on his part that would have been.  
  
The man could tell by the way he maneuvered around his words that there was a part being left out of the story. Being more pretermitting than expected, he didn't push for an explanation and let Dakúk continue.   
  
His words flowed better than he had hoped, and for a moment he felt like a genuine storyteller. The bloody bits of his tale were difficult to remember, as he hadn't paid much heed to the details when living through it. Dakúk caught a stifled glare from the man at his description of his few victories over the opposing army. He spoke of his fight proudly, glad to see the frown on the slave's face. He knew the human to think him a brute, a reckless creature of war. He revealed in Aharenor's distaste. Damn the man, he had fought  _well_ until his slip. The heated air of the fight and fear in his heart had been hell, but at least he could say that he defended his home in some way.  
  
To speak of his throbbing wounds after the battle was less than pleasant because it brought light to the fact that were  _still_ painful. The hardening scabs that polka-dotted his body cracked and split whenever he arched his back just a little too much or shuffled his legs from under him. They were fresh and oozing, the worst leaking a clear liquid. Had his body not been drained of most of its blood, he was certain they would have dried by now. The lack of the fluid left his wounds partially dripping, unable to fully clot as they should have. As if he already had enough problems with his hebetude.   
  
Aharenor listened with morbid curiosity, not able to resist hearing the orc's grisly retelling of the fort's downfall. It was admittedly spirit-lifting to hear how easily the mass of stone had succumbed to the army. For all of his time as a slave, he had hated those looming towers. They were a constant reminder of what he had become, and at the time, was likely to stay as forever. It was good that no matter the height, Sauron's successes could be toppled. To know they had fallen was almost poetically liberating. They would trap the spirits of men no longer.   
  
Dakúk sped through the last stretch of his tale, glossing over the bits he hadn't cared for in real time, and slightly exaggerating what moments he could to keep the man satisfied. There was a moment of silence after his last words, which went on for quite some time before Aharenor realized he was finished.   
  
No further words were exchanged. Aharenor walked over, placed the strip in the orc's mouth (which was embarrassing for both parties), and left to gather his thoughts outside the cave.  
  
Dakúk was left inside with a mouth full of saliva-sapping meat. It didn't come close to the taste he was expecting. Its aroma had hinted at a savory, tasteful morsel. The sinew in between his teeth was opposite in all ways. His buds were left dismayed by the dirty, salty and overly bland flavor that had settled on his tongue. The only saving grace was that it filled a portion of his well of a stomach. His sharpened teeth made quick work of the ration, putting the human's own efforts to shame. It was funny to think that he still had a few advantages over the man, even in his state.   
  
The day had been  _horrendously_ long, and Aharenor was grateful for the fresh air that helped calm his nerves. Dry as it was, it eased the stressed hold he had tightened his muscles into and allowed a moment of tranquility. The shine of the afternoon sun was hard on his eyes, but not unwelcome. It beat the spirit-dampening dimness of the cave and the drafty chill that came with it. He wondered if the minions of Sauron basked in the glow of the eye as contently as he did the sun's.   
  
A gathering of long-dead bushes formed a suitable obstruction to shield the hideaway from the rest of the xeric landscape.   
The cave he and his companion had dragged the orc into sat atop a small cliff with a less than considerable drop. A man of average physic could jump from the ledge and land without injury if he wished to. Having to push Dakúk up and onto the ledge had taken an effort Aharenor hadn't known he would have given for the guard and left him amazed at the state a person be thumped into with a good cuff. The lengthy process had been akin to setting a straw doll up on a shelf that you could just  _barely_ reach. The doll would inevitably flop over and off the shelf, forcing you to catch its gnarled, blood-squirting body while you contemplate why you even bother. Then its arm limpidly smacks you in the face again. The endeavor had been tiring, to say the least. His companion had assured him that the ordeal would make up for itself in the end, though Aharenor hadn't any idea how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aharenor grows impatient with waiting for his companion.


	7. Two Humans and an Orc in a Cave...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dakúk meets an old face again.

Otholdis could not remember a time in the past several months when she had felt the warmth of a stuffed stomach and not the dull ache of a hungry one. In the arid wastelands of Mordor, the ground supplied little in terms of sustenance. Most plants that rooted themselves in the sandy soils of the surrounding brushland were woody and inedible, and the few that weren't were not more appetizing by much. Bitter and tuberous, they may have tasted better had water been spared to boil them, but there was not enough of that commodity to waste on luxuries such as a meal that didn't immediately seem ready to kill you.

It was Otholdis's fortune that she had gathered something else to cover up the uninviting roots: a thoroughly clubbed Mordor rat spanning nearly the length of her forearm, excluding the tail. A beastly broodmother while alive, it had surely produced its fair share of rodent swarms at its peak. But as it grew old, it had lost its edge, allowing Otholdis to sneak up on the fattened vermin which would prove to make a small feast. It had been a bloody affair, and she had the delicate speckles of crimson across her rags to prove it. After going so long without a proper meal, the prospect of a roasted rat leg brought a greedy gleam to her eye. She imagined the glistening fat dripping down her fingers as she had her fill. Perhaps she could roast the tubers with her catch so that some flavor might rub off on them. It was worth a try. The rats she had found so far hadn't tasted half-bad. 

A year ago, nay, _months ago _, Otholdis would have retched at the idea of eating such a creature, much less enjoying it. She still felt guilty at times, when the knowledge of what she was doing threatened to fill her with disgust or shame. But mostly she was happy to eat what the land afforded her, be it hare or rat.__

__She gripped her well-earned haul over her shoulder, roots and rat jouncing against her back as she took quick, spry steps down a particularly steep part of her path. Here a cliff face was chipped in such a way that it created a generous amount of footholds for her to find her balance on. Many of them were partially hidden under loose pebbles and dry soil blown by the wind, making the threat of slipping on unstable ground and falling to the depths of the canyon below very real. From her spot on the cliff, the drop would prove damaging rather than deadly, but the briar that sat at the bottom of the gorge would cut her open enough to change that. A thousand dirt clogged gashes left a thousand doors open to infection and disease.  
Otholdis trotted down the nigh-vertical path in a hurry, nearly slipping once, but smoothly regaining her composure. She slowed to a gentler pace once her feet met the bottom of the gorge. _ _

__There, perhaps 100 paces ahead, was a great gathering of dried thickets and brush. Directly above it sat a small outcropping of stone, a sight that marked the end of Otholdis's path. She sped over to the thorny thickets, taking care not to snag her skirts on the tiny blades that littered their branches. Still, she found herself having to unhook the odd sleeve or dress hem from a thorn. Such a thing was inevitable._ _

__Up she climbed the tiny cliff above the bushes, it being only a head taller than herself. With a short "Humph!" she heaved herself up and over the edge, meeting the familiar entrance of her latest abode. As far as caves went, it wasn't horrible. The inside was dry and relatively cozy, and the shade it provided kept the blistering Mordor sun off her back. If the cave had extended into the cliffside further, she would have thought it perfect. It would rid her of the occasional wayward winds that sometimes invaded the refuge._ _

__From inside the cave came a voice quick and sharp, one she had grown used to hearing again during the past twelve hours. It was startling how little that tenerous voice had changed since those many months ago. There was a bit of a hoarseness to it now, but that was all._ _

__She entered through the mouth of the cave, passing through a small bend that lead into a modest room of sorts. It was no longer than two body lengths, and was nearly the same in its width. The ceiling was no taller than a door frame, and dipped down lower the farther one went from the exit. Luckily, there were no stalactites to knock her crown against, and for that she was thankful. It was a rather run of the mill cave, with little to make it anything other than ordinary._ _

__Except perhaps for the orcish centerpiece it now held._ _

__The moment her leather-swathed feet stepped out of the entryway, it snapped its eyes to her form, giving her its full attention except for a turn of the head. The speed with which it happened gave her enough of a fright to take a hobbled step backwards, and made her thrust her arm out against the smooth, stony wall in an attempt to find her balance._ _

__The vivid, yellow eyes that stared at her from the middle of the room contrasted sharply against the blood and grime that surrounded them. Instead of the seething predatory glare she expected, they blinked at her as wide, yellow saucers bathed in the most hopelessly confused look she had seen in a _very _long while. Even his maw, a fang-filled cavern that she had been ready to see bared and flinging spittle, sat half open as if frozen in speech. Seeing the creature's own uncertainty soothed her nerves, and from beneath the momentary flood of fear came a sliver of embarrassment. She prided herself in being light footed, yet here she was with her presence exposed so easily. It was a little humiliating.___ _

____Dakúk on the other hand, couldn't feel more relieved. Or bewildered.  
For the past hour, he had receded into his mind while the blonde-one babbled on about Gondor, how lucky Dakúk was to have not been slain by him, and poetic justice. The next person to enter that cave would be his murderer; he was sure of it. For all sixty minutes, he had fretted and worried over his fate, fully convinced that he was to die a slow, torturous death at the hands of a vengeance-seeking slave. Dakúk had always known his past would come back to bite him in the arse some way or another, but never like this. Not by a scrawny, past plaything and his pompous, golden-haired lackey. It drove him into a worry unlike any other. The only way he was able to remedy it, if a little, was to argue with himself that there was limited amount of pain that he had yet to feel. In his bloody, gash covered state, that slave was going to have to be damn-near creatively gifted._ _ _ _

____As deep as he delved within himself, he'd snap out of it whenever Aharenor rose his voice, noticing that his orc was slipping back into inattention. But Dakúk started to react less and less, and Aharenor began to realize that despite having a _literal captive audience _, he wasn't going to be listened to anytime soon. So he ceased his threats for the better half of the hour, speaking to himself in a sad display while casting sidelong glances at the orc whose eyes might slink his way, then plant themselves back onto the wall in one slow, blinking movement.___ _ _ _

______ _ _ _ _

______"Otholdis! I didn't hear you come in." Chirped the Gondorian standing across the room. Otholdis quickly averted her gaze from the orc, breaking the short, albeit intense, staring match they'd shared. Regaining herself, she stepped forward._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Well I certainly heard you on the way in. 'Could hear you fine from outside even. You might want to lower your voice at times, lest you draw something here." She chided, making little attempt to sound upset. With a red-stained hand, she lifted her hefty burden off her back, letting the monstrosity of a rodent hang by its tail in front of her. As it swung gently back and forth, a few stray drops of blood that had not yet drained from the corpse pattered onto the stone below. At _this _the orc turned its head, its nose twitching and sniffing.___ _ _ _ _ _

________Aharenor furrowed his brow in revolt at the mess of fur and gore. Still, he was happy to see it dead rather than alive. He had run into them once or twice in the mines. They were nastier than the average rat, and always took an extra kick or two to make sure they weren't feigning death. Luckily, he'd always had the backup of a few slaves who hated the creatures as much as him. And, though he hated to admit it, a certain guard that found entertainment in skewering them on his pike._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________" Eugh! That stench is much more likely to attract something! It looks like it's been bludgeoned to death!"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________" It has been bludgeoned to death." Replied Otholdis with a small smile, tossing the future meal off to the side were herbs and linen scraps lay. " Your sword would have made quicker work of it. I nearly lost my fingers grappling with the nasty thing. I shouldn't have to worry about that when fetching supper. " She dug her hands into her half-stuffed pockets, pulling thick, brown roots from out of the fabric of her dress. "Speaking of supper, I found a few more of these. " Aharenor immediately pulled another face, trying to look like he was making an effort to not show his disappointment._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"Ah. Thank you, Otholdis. This was all very...kind of you." He offered with a lopsided smile.  
_"Oh please!" _Otholdis scoffed to herself. _"He has some nerve acting like that over food he didn't work a minute for!" _She gave a pursed smile back at him, wondering how a soldier trained to live off of wartime rations could be so picky._____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________" I do wish I could have lent you the sword," Aharenor continued "but I still stand that it was better left..." with this he peered over at the orc, who had been watching both of them intently, " here."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________The sudden shift from being a silent observer to the center attention was enough of a threatening change to make Dakúk recede back into the defensive glower he had settled himself into before the woman's arrival. He did his best to emulate the hostile look he'd had before, letting out a low, rumbling growl to emphasize his displeasure. The man returned the aggression with a small frown and nothing more, though with his growl, Dakúk caught the tensing of his sword arm. A habit he still regained from past tussles with uruk, he supposed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________He flicked his gaze back and forth between the two humans, waiting for them to do something, _anything _, to end the horrible suspense to all of this. The strange she tark that had entered, "Otholdis", as the soldier had called her, stepped forward.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________"I see that you're still alive. And wide awake, at that." She said slowly, as if he was hard of hearing. Dakúk said nothing in return. A small storm was brewing in his head, one that was dredging up memories at the sight of the human. It was the third time he had seen one of her kind. The first had been... _somewhat _, of a fond memory. Something to tell at a campfire after a round of pints, and get called a liar for until his fellows were drunk enough to believe him. An experience he was glad he had, at the least. It meant that he had known very well what strange creature was being paraded around on top of a pike one sunny Mordor morning. From an informant (which had been Lugnak, of course) he'd learned the raiding party strolling pass their fort had been taking their plunder home from the west. The poor lass atop the metal prong had been apart of some traveling Gondorian caravan, one that hadn't had enough brains to take notice of the warg tracks there were passing over.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________He still found the general appearance of her ilk somewhat odd, even after becoming confident with being able to identify one. Straight-backed and high-holding like a man, but proportioned bodily in _several _different ways. It was definitely a change from what he was used to seeing. A small but sure adjustment to his own personal knowledge of what classified as a human.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________" As you might have already learned, my _friend _here," to this she motioned to the soldier, who gave a curt nod, " assailed you near the mines." Dakúk frowned at the memory, but his attention was being stolen away by something else. He couldn't help but find something uncannily familiar.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________" _Yeah. _" He applied in a gruff voice. Way to state the obvious lady.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________" Well, I apologize to you for that, though I'm sure my friend won't give you the same courte-"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________"I won't." Ahahrenor interjected, earning a dagger-filled stare from the woman. He closed his mouth amenably, then leaned back against the cave wall in a cold manner. Otholdis looked back to the uruk._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________Regaining her tone, she went on. " As I was saying. You may find Aharenor less than accommodating. He wanted to leave you there at the mines, which, to be fair, is much more gracious of him than he need be, considering the tales he's told me about you."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______________________"Snitch!" _Thought Dakúk bitterly. No doubt the flaxen-haired slave had spun a whole, tragedy-filled epic out of played up, exaggerated tales of the cruelty of orcish masters and the horror of the mines. _Pah! _What a louse his slave was turning out to be.____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________"But I had him drag you back here." Her eyebrows pushed down together. " I'm guessing you don't remember me." She frowned._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________At this, a flood of remembrance washed away the foggy thoughts in Dakúk's head._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________It couldn't be._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________Yet there she was, standing right in front of him with her tattered clothes and face full of hardships. Dakúk hadn't expected the little whispy thing to still be alive. Her hair wasn't as long as it had been those months ago, nore did she appear so gangly and meek. Now she was a collection of calloused skin and sinewy muscles. The Mordor wastes had a fine way of roughening and toughening up whatever walked into them. Either that or killing them. A quick glance to his left made him wonder what made Aharenor so immune as to keep nanciness throughout what he'd been through._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________"Skah! You're that she-tark that swiped my lunch!" He blurted with wide eyes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________"Yes." She affirmed. " And I apologize for taking that graug's tail of yours. It was my stomach acting, really." For an apology, it didn't sound all that sorry._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________" Hmmp! Well as much as this is a darling lil' reunion, I still don't know why I'm 'ere." Dakúk harrumphed. Otholdis shuffled her feet and crossed her arms at his prodding. The orc fumbled with its foot shackles before her, squaring up its knees with its shoulders in a mock aggressive stance. Back curved and shoulder blades hunched, it resembled a cat before it's pounce. From above, it's nigh-glowing eyes peeked out intensely from below the harsh ridge of its brow, only adding to the look. It made for an unnerving sight._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________When Otholdis spoke her voice was low and steady. " I wanted to return the favor."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________Dakúk's defensive facade faltered at her words but was rebuilt almost immediately." You've got an odd definition of 'elping a bloke out if it involves knocking 'imout silly _tark _." He grumbled with an air of disbelief, though his interest was now peaking.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________"When we saw you, " she drew a line with her hand between Aharenor and herself, " I insisted we help you. I felt obligated after what you had done for me at the bramble puddle. It was the only way I saw being able to unindebt myself to you. You appeared half-dead, stumbling around and looking like you did." Dakúk held his scowling frown, wondering if he had really looked as bad as he felt to be perceived as a charity case by some loony Mordor inhabiting woman. If he hadn't known better, he'd have guessed a den of caragor's had used him as a yarn of ball. " For the record, it wasn't my idea to hit you like that. Aharenore wouldn't agree to let you come back here unless you were unconscious. It was a compromise." Aharenor didn't have the tiniest smidge of guilt on his stoic expression, not that Dakúk had expected to see any._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Dakúk drew a shallow breath, mulling her words over. His fingers plucked and uselessly swiped at the stray strands of fiber on the ropes that bound his hands. Whoever had tied them had done them up a bit too tightly, either for fear of his escape or retribution for some past trespass of his. " And whose idea was it to tie me up like this, eh?" He asked accusingly. The rusty slave shackles clamped around his ankles seemed to jangle in support of the question._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________The woman didn't hide the lack of regret in her next words " Both of ours. We didn't know what you'd do when you'd wake up." She'd seen too many messy aftermaths of orc on human scuffles to chance risking her and Aharenor's lives. He was war-torn and weak, yes, but his ilk were unpredictable creatures._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________" I still don't see 'ow any of this is s'possed to be 'elping me." Dakúk contested, puffing out his words with the odd rumbling growl. The lady nodded her head understandingly. Aharenor moved closer to her for some reason of his own, but she didn't spare him the glance._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________" I should have started with that, it would have made things less confusing for you." She raised two spread palms to her collar bone and gestured to herself. " I am a trained healer. I'm well practiced in the craft, and I've seen to all manner of wounds and ailments. I thought I might be able to tend to you if I brought you here." Her voice became smoother, calmer. "I've only ever patched up and cared for men, but I'm sure that a certain orc would be no different to treat. And I'm _willing _to treat that orc should they be _willing _to let me."_____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________Dakúk regarded her suspiciously. " And what would this 'treating' entail, eh?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________At this Otholdis opened her mouth as if to speak, then quickly closed it after a thought came to mind. The orc and the man both watched her as she strode over to the collection of grasses, roots, and ingredients that were strewn across the cave floor in what would have looked to be an unorganized, plenty heap. She pressed a finger to her lip in brooding contemplation before selecting several strands of long, dark yellow grasses. She carried them back over to Dakúk while carefully counting the blades of grass, putting four in her left hand and another four in her right._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________Otholdis kneeled in front of the orc, putting her hand out so that the ends of the grasses stopped half a hand in front of his busted mouth. " Chew on these if you would. They won't close your wounds, but they'll take away the worst of the pain." Dakúk stared at the thin yellow blades incredulously._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________The woman raised her eyebrows at him, nudging the plants forward a hair._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________Dakúk stared back.  
"What?" He faltered._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________Otholdis's expression dropped as she leaned back on her heels in a sigh, arching her head to the ceiling before rebounding to face the orc. He reared his head back once he saw her tightly cornered glower. " Just put them in your mouth!" She commanded bitingly with a squeeze of her upheld palm._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________" O-oi! I ain't seeing how some dirt-grown greeny bits are gonna get me pranc-" He didn't get far before she stopped his rebuttal._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________" I'm not just going to give you _herbs _you fool. It's to dull the hurt and make pulling your stitches through less difficult on my part!" She hissed. Dakúk flinched at her harshness, revealing a few sharp teeth underneath his pulled up lips. The intimidating picture before him called him back to one of his first days at his guard shift, fresh out of the fortress and thrown before a piping pitmaster with jowls all a snashing. There were considerably fewer jowls and fangs on the angry bonfire of a tark before him, but she burned a fright into him in that cave as well as any Pagúk had in the mines.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________________He leaned forward, realizing how easily he could sink his teeth into the unclawed hand that hovered in front of his face. He might be able to get away with a finger or two... before Aharenor drove his sword into his neck._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________________He nipped into the four little blades that had been offered, pulling them into his mouth and grinding them between his molars. As the fibers split, a detestable, sweetly bitter taste spread over his tongue. He wrinkled his nose and forehead at the overly strong flavor. It began to fade as his tongue became fat and numb in his mouth. He moved it back and force across the tops of his teeth and against the inside of his cheek, unable to find a position where it didn't feel like a pregnant slug in his maw. Little by little, the sensation spread to his lips as well, where the pain from a busted scab was beginning to melt away._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________________" There we go. You're rather large, so it may take a while for it to come into full effect. Until then, keep chewing. Stop if you start to feel dizzy, yes?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________________Dakúk nodded, trying to use his numb, clumsy tongue to unlodge a bit of fiber stuck in between his back teeth. Feeling content with herself, Otholdis turned back to her medicine pile and brushed away some supplies to reveal a hand's roll of half-cleaned linen. " Aharenor, did you give him anything to drink while I was away?" She queried good-naturedly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________________" Of course I did. " Replied Aharenor, who had been watching and waiting quietly for much of her ordeal with the orc._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________________"Barely!" Snapped Dakúk with a mouth full of tongue, still working on his chewing grass._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________________" You drank near half the canteen. What was I going to do, let you down all of our water?" Aharenor turned his head to him, grimacing while he spoke._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________________" Should 'ave given me more than a few _sips _more like."___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________Aharenor guffawed at him. " It was more than a fiend like you had any business getting. " Let the orc push him, see how far he'd get._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________"'Ooh, so you think 'ur all pure and above me do ya? Think I'm a real dastardly bloke eh?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________At this he blanked. After all he'd done, all the injustices and beatings of his fellow countrymen... and he believed himself to be..._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________It was enough to make Aharenor's blood boil over, hearing his indignation.  
He shot back with a snarl that spilled venom. " As a matter of fact, yes, I do. Besides why should I waste anything more than what I have to on a slaver like yourself?" _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________" I _guarded_ , shrahk brain." Chuckled back his opponent mockingly. Aharenor inwardly winced at his words, how unaware they were. He was a smart enough uruk, why couldn't he show it? He was already beginning to lose his patience with his prisoner. Most of it had been used up staying silent.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________________" And I suppose that makes you better, hmm?" Aharenor probed, glaring his prisoner down. He hoped he wouldn't say what he thought he would._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________________Dakúk stopped for a moment. " Uh... yeah?" He said dryly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. The man huffed. His face had become as hot as a plague victim's and flushed as pink as a peony petal. He had more than adequate energy to continue on, to roar with the uruk back and forth for the next hour needed. Or if it suited him, brandish his blade with abandon until the gods-be-damned uruk shut his more than objectable mouth. Aharenor's sword arm even twitched, and for that brief pause, he was surer than anything that he was going to begin waving that weapon into the air like a madman. But, he didn't. The orc kneeled below him, maintaining a confident glower that showed no cracks of hesitation or doubt. There wasn't a shred of lack of conviction on his face. Aharenor shouldn't have been upset. He should have been realistic in his thinking. The beast thought like all the others, and there was nothing to that. Hopelessly attributing the orc's lax discipline with himself as a slave to some form of sympathy had been a mistake. He couldn't help but look back on it as indifference._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________________Aharenor walked out of the cave, feeling more disappointed than he had in a long, long time._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8 MONTHS SINCE THE LAST CHAPTER.
> 
> And I remember when I thought posting a week late was bad.
> 
> EDIT: Well, I read through the story and found a few misspellings, and also noticed that some things were missing from the original document. So that's fixed now.


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